


Three Wishes

by AgentFontySeven



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alcohol, Alien Biology, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Angst, Attempted Kidnapping, Backstory, Baseball, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fan Characters, Fan Children, Fanart, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mpreg, Original Character(s), Parenthood, Post-Cell Games Saga, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Suicide Attempt, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel, Violence, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-03-09 06:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 72,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentFontySeven/pseuds/AgentFontySeven
Summary: There were only three things Yamcha wanted in life; a career he enjoyed, a loving wife, and kids of his own. After the birth of Trunks, he falls into despair, convinced that his dreams would remain just that. However, there's more than one way to grant a wish, and some sources of happiness come from the most unexpected of places.Now including sketches at the end of each chapter!





	1. Falling Down

 There were only three things in the world Yamcha wanted in his life; a career he truly enjoyed, a loving wife, and children of his own. One would say that these were quite common, perhaps even admirable goals for a man his age to have. At one point in his life, he thought he had the first two in the bag, and assumed the third would follow soon enough, but now? Sure, one could argue that he had a dream job. He was the star player for a national baseball team, he’d never lost a game, and he’d smashed every record in the book a dozen times over, yet somehow… somehow being the best didn’t make him happy. It was _too_ easy. There was no challenge anymore. It was the same old “play, win, get paid,” routine day in and day out. He may as well have a desk job, for all the joy he got from it.

 Then there was his love life. He’d been so sure that he’d marry Bulma someday, that they’d settle down together and eventually start a family. He’d done everything she’d asked of him; he’d cut his hair, he’d dressed more to her tastes, he moved into the city for her, he treated her like a goddess… but it was never enough. He should have known it would never be enough. What could he possibly give to the richest woman in the world that she would actually value?

 Still, he was blinded by love, and he continued on trying to keep hold of her heart. At least, until Vegeta arrived. That’s when it all came crumbling down. That smug jackass didn’t even love Bulma, yet she immediately flung herself all over him. And then, hardly a year later, came Trunks.

 As it happened, it was Trunks’ first birthday, and everyone was currently gathered at Capsule Corp. for one of the multi-billionaire’s extravagant parties. Yamcha had been invited to come, but he found that he couldn’t stand to be there for more than ten minutes. He could hardly bear to look at Trunks without feeling a bitter knot in his heart. That could have been his son. That _should_ have been his son.

 Perhaps it would come as no surprise that, rather than hanging out at said infant’s birthday party, Yamcha instead found himself in some back-alley dive bar on the less affluent side of West City, staring emptily down into what little remained of his fifth glass of whiskey. He tossed it back and set the dingy glass back down a bit harder than he intended, one of the ice cubes bouncing out onto the rough wooden surface of the bar. He was far too drunk to feel bad about it, and at least it had gotten the attention of the bartender.

 “Gimmie ‘nother…” he slurred out, mostly under his breath. Still, the bartender seemed to hear him and made his way over.

 “I think perhaps you’ve had enough for one night,” was his calm reply. Yamcha became particularly aggrieved by this, and lifted his head to give the man an indignant stare that probably looked tougher in his swirling, drunken mind. He blinked hard to force his vision to steady before the person before him finally coalesced into something he could comprehend. This wasn’t the grizzled old man that had been serving him up to this point. It was a younger man, probably about his own age, his long, wavy blond hair tied back into a low ponytail. His almost-pretty face didn’t seem to match with his deep voice and impressive height. Of course, that could have been the whiskey talking.

 He might have drunk himself cross-eyed, but Yamcha could tell just by looking that this younger bartender wasn’t about to be talked into giving him more drinks. Actually, perhaps that was a sign he should stop. He let out a resigned sigh, pushing himself up out of his barstool and wobbling up to his feet. Before he could stagger away, the bartender held an upturned palm out to him. He squinted down at it, his confusion plastered across his equally plastered face. The bartender gave a gentle smile as he explained.

 “I’m afraid I can’t let you drive in the state you’re in, sir.”

 Yamcha’s shoulders slumped as he let out a grumble of discontent. Even so, he dug around in his pants pocket and fished out a small capsule. He reluctantly slapped it down into the bartender’s expectant hand, again a tad harder than he’d intended. The bartender didn’t even flinch, dropping the capsule into the pocket of his apron.

 “Would you like me to call you a cab?”

 “N-nah, m’good,” Yamcha replied, stumbling away towards the door before he could be held up any longer. He burst through the door and out into the trash-cluttered streets, holding himself up against the doorframe for a moment as he adjusted to the drastic change in temperature from the warm bar to the cold night outside. The late November air bit at his already reddened face, but he hadn’t the presence of mind to pull his coat around him for warmth. He didn’t even bother to look around him to see if anyone was watching before he floated up into the air.

 He flew off towards… Honestly, he didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t much care either. He just wanted to get away – the farther from West City, the better. He didn’t even bother to look ahead of him as he flew, instead staring down at the land below. He knew he was far too drunk to attempt navigating somewhere. Besides, there was something almost hypnotizing about watching the landscape drift slowly away behind him as he listed unsteadily through the air. Unfortunately, hypnotizing was probably the last thing he needed in his current state. He managed to get just far enough north that the ground was starting to turn white, then promptly fell out of the sky.

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha let out an uneasy groan as consciousness invaded his still-cloudy mind. He kept his eyes squeezed closed for a while, lifting a hand to rest against his pounding head. It took him a moment to recall what had happened the night before, but it all soon came back to him. Man, that was pretty stupid of him. What was he thinking, flying off into the night while shit-faced drunk? Well, he supposed the fact that he was indeed shit-faced drunk was all the explanation he needed.

 As the events of the previous night came into focus, he just barely recalled passing out while flying over a snow-covered field. Was that where he still was? Shit, he must have caught hypothermia or something, because he didn’t even feel cold. He finally willed his eyes to open so he could have a look around.

 Much to his surprise, he didn’t find himself half-buried in a snowdrift. Instead, he was lying on a couch in front of the smoldering remains of a fire in a stone fireplace, which seemed to be the only source of light in the room. Everything around him looked so old, like he’d fallen straight through the roof of a Victorian-era mansion. Fearing that exact scenario may have occurred, he quickly looked up to inspect the ceiling, letting out a sigh of relief when he didn’t find a gaping hole above his head.

 “Finally awake, I see.”

 Yamcha let out a yelp of surprise when a deep male voice suddenly addressed him from somewhere beyond the back of the couch. A moment later, a figure came into view, and he found himself suddenly staring up at a very familiar face.

“P-Piccolo?! What the… How did you..?” Yamcha stammered out, far too confused to settle on one question long enough to ask it in full. Rather than answering any of his half-finished queries, Piccolo wordlessly offered him a mug of coffee. Yamcha stared at the mug for a moment, having not expected the gesture from the gruff alien, but eventually accepted it with some hesitation. He stared down into the inky blackness of the beverage, taking in the rich aroma. It sure smelled a hell of a lot better than what he usually drank, and he didn’t exactly get the cheap stuff.

 He tentatively took a sip and immediately pulled the mug away from his lips in surprise, staring at it as though it were just as alien as the man who’d given it to him. It was clearly black coffee, but it tasted like it had cream in it. How did he even do that? Beyond that, he couldn’t think of a better way to describe it other than the best damn coffee he’d ever tasted. If it wasn’t so hot, he’d be tempted to down it in one gulp.

 He was distracted from the coffee only when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Piccolo walked around the couch before settling himself into an armchair positioned on the opposite side of the fireplace. He wasn’t wearing his bulky cape or turban, but he still looked a bit out of place in such an old-fashioned house. The thought immediately sparked a slight panic in Yamcha.

 “H-hey, where the hell are we? Whose house is this? Shouldn’t we get out of here before the owners come back?”

 Piccolo replied with an exacerbated sigh, shooting the other man a very annoyed glare.

 “Is it so hard to believe that this is _my_ house?”

 “ _Y-yours?!_ ” Yamcha nearly shouted in surprise, all but proving the Namekian’s point. He took another glance around the room, taking it in with this new bit of information in mind. Everything from the wall-mounted light fixtures to the furniture to the artwork covering the walls held a regal elegance typical of the aristocracy of Victorian-era Europe. It was the sort of thing you only ever saw in movies and museums.

 “N-no, it’s just… Not the sort of place I expected you to live in.”

 The conversation died into a deafening silence after that. Yamcha occupied himself with sipping at his coffee, letting his eyes drift over towards the smoldering fire. He never knew how to speak to Piccolo. The guy was an absolute enigma, a stoic giant with whom he’d never had anything in common. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that the two of them would have considered themselves enemies. How exactly was he supposed to engage in small talk with someone who once held the titles of both the Great Demon King and God Himself? Luckily it was Piccolo who eventually broke the silence.

 “Look, I’m just going to cut to the chase: are you alright?”

 Yamcha glanced up at the sudden question, blinking in confusion.

 “What do you mean?”

 “You left the party in a hurry last night.”

 Oh, that’s right. He’d completely forgotten that Piccolo was there at the party. He must have been such a wallflower that Yamcha hadn’t noticed him there. Then again, he didn’t really stay long himself. He let out a chuckle that he hoped sounded convincing, scratching idly at the back of his head.

 “Yeah, I’m not really one for little kid parties, y’know? I just stepped out for a real drink.”

 “Or five.”

 That immediate retort caught him off guard, and he found himself staring up at Piccolo’s stony expression with a bit more suspicion.

 “You… you followed me?”

 Piccolo replied with a small shrug of his shoulders.

 “I’m not really one for parties in general,” he began, hesitating for a moment before continuing somewhat awkwardly, “Besides… I was a bit worried about you…”

 Here Yamcha had thought that he couldn’t have been more taken aback by the current situation, but he found himself at a complete loss for words. Piccolo was worried about him? Was he really that obvious about it? Piccolo seemed to read the confusion on his face and decided to explain himself.

 “I’ve been watching people for centuries. People who drink like that are either alcoholics or are in some sort of mental distress. You don’t strike me as the former.”

 Yamcha wasn’t sure what to say to that. To have the whole situation instantly deconstructed like that in a matter of seconds… it was a little unnerving, to say the least. For a moment he was tempted to cling to his façade that everything was okay, that the whole situation with Bulma didn’t bother him, but he thought better of it. Piccolo’s stern black eyes seemed to bore right past his defenses, peering straight into his soul. He felt as though he was being read like a book, and that anything he told the former guardian wouldn’t be anything new to him. Finally, he gave a heavy sigh of defeat, letting his eyes fall to the floor.

 “I’ve just… been having a rough time of it lately, is all…” he admitted, but he couldn’t bring himself to say any more than that. Talking about his personal problems, his most intimate feelings… that wasn’t something he’d ever been good at with anyone, let alone someone as cold and uncaring as he’d always seen Piccolo to be. Then again, perhaps the Namekian was more empathetic than he’d first thought, having picked up on his emotional state right away at the party. Or perhaps that was one of the side effects of him having merged with Kami once more.

 Yamcha heard Piccolo rise from his seat and make his way around the couch once more. There was a shuffling of fabric behind him, and when he looked he found that his coat had been draped over the back of the couch next to him.

 “You can stay here as long as you need. Make sure you’re okay to fly before you leave. I might not be there to catch you next time.”

 And with that, he heard Piccolo’s footsteps fade as he left the room.

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha decided not to linger at Piccolo’s place for very long. Partly because it felt awkward wandering around a house without the owner escorting him, but also because he was somewhat afraid of breaking something irreplaceable. Everything in the house looked as though it had been taken right out of the late 19th century; things they just didn’t make anymore and in a style all but lost to time. As he tried to find his way to the main door, he couldn’t help but look at it all and wonder why. Why would Piccolo live in a place like this? How’d he even come upon it? Why did a house like this still exist at all? Something was missing in this picture, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

 Honestly, he didn’t know why he cared. Perhaps he was just using it as a distraction from thinking too hard on his own problems. Piccolo could live however he liked, even if his tastes were quite dated. It wasn’t really any of his business.

 Once he located the door, he took a peek behind him to see if Piccolo was anywhere to be seen. All that greeted him was a deserted dark foyer. He supposed that was just as well. Saying goodbye would probably be awkward after their conversation earlier. He shrugged his coat on over his shoulders and opened the door to leave.

 The blinding white of the outside world was like knives digging into his brain. He let out a startled grunt, bringing his arm up to shield his eyes, but it was of little help. The sun’s light reflected off the vast field of snow before him, making it even brighter than usual. It was even less pleasant for someone with a massive hangover. After giving himself a moment to get used to it, he stepped outside and took off into the air, heading towards West City.

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha didn’t head home straight away. Instead, he flew well past it towards the dingy part of town where the bar from last night was located. Plastered though he was at the time, he still remembered handing over his car to that blond bartender. He’d better get that back before anyone caught him flying through the sky on his own. He landed outside the little dive and let himself in.

 He walked in on an almost deserted building. All of the chairs and barstools were stacked upside-down on the scattered tables, and only the one television behind the bar was on. An old man with a thick grey moustache was sweeping the floor behind the main bar, though his attention was mostly taken up by the news show he was watching. Yamcha approached the bar, giving the surface a quick knock to alert the bartender to his presence.

 “Hey, I left my car here last night. Can I have it back?”

 The old man never bothered to look away from the television screen as he replied with a gruff, “Color and model number,” as though it was something he’d been asked on a daily basis.

 “Oh, uhh… Blue, model 4583.”

 The man then set his broom aside, retrieving a small bowl from behind the counter which contained a few capsules. He quickly identified Yamcha’s and handed it over to him.

 “Thanks. Oh, and tell that other bartender thanks for me as well. I would have gotten into a hell of a lot of trouble if I’d tried driving home last night,” Yamcha said with a chuckle. Rather than ignoring the comment and continuing to watch his show as expected, the old man turned to him with his brow furrowed in confusion.

 “Other bartender?” he repeated.

 “Yeah, the really tall blond guy. He was working here last night.”

 “Son, I’ve been runnin’ this place for over forty-five years, and in all that time I’ve been the only one tendin’ to this here bar. I don’t have any other employees.”

 “Y-you _don’t?!_ Then who the hell was that guy?”

 The old man merely shrugged.

 “From what you told me, I figure he was some random good Samaritan. Don’t get too many of those nowadays, ‘specially in this part of town. I’m surprised he didn’t up an’ steal yer car. You best count your lucky stars for that, boy.”

 And with that, the old man returned to his sweeping and Yamcha was left more confused than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I'm starting to add little bonus sketches to the ends of my chapters! As you may expect, they will depict one of the scenes that take place in the chapter they are posted to. They may not be on every chapter just yet, but I will slowly make my way down the backlog until there is a sketch for each one. For more art that doesn't necessarily come from this story, consider checking out my tumblr's art tag at http://professor-spacecakes.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art


	2. The Gilded Cage

 Yamcha was already well into the Northern District, but he still hadn’t come up with a good excuse for why he was heading back towards Piccolo’s place. He hadn’t headed back immediately, of course. He’d returned to his West City apartment immediately after retrieving his car from the bar. It was a good thing, too, because poor Puar was absolutely beside herself with worry when he hadn’t come home the night before. She’d tackled him the instant he opened the door, sobbing against his chest as she squeaked out about how she thought he was dead in a ditch somewhere. He managed to dismiss her concerns with his usual cockiness, weaving some contrived story about how he’d met a woman at the bar and spent the night at her house – all expected innuendos present and accounted for, of course. He could tell she didn’t quite believe him, but it had the desired effect of getting her off his back. She was still a little fearful of Piccolo, so he thought telling her about that whole thing would only get her worrying more.

 Currently, it was the next day. He’d had plenty of time to sleep off his hangover and get his wits about him. He knew roughly where he was going, but flying the same path as he had the night of the party felt like he was traversing a completely different landscape than before. It was surely the same white snowy fields, but now that he wasn’t drunk as hell, it didn’t threaten to lull him into unconsciousness. He noticed when he’d gotten past the point where he must have fallen when he no longer remembered anything about where he was.

 Soon enough, the old mansion where Piccolo called home came into view. And a mansion it surely was. He never thought to look back at the place when he’d left the day before, but now that he saw it in full he realized just how huge it was. It had to be at least three stories with additional attic spaces at certain points, and it spanned several acres just for the building alone. He wasn’t sure how far the property stretched, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it rivaled that of Capsule Corp’s headquarters.

 Yamcha landed at the front door and took a moment to appreciate just how big the entrance was. A marble staircase curved upward to the porch that wrapped around the front of the house. Tall columns framed a massive hardwood door with a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth. He took hold of the ring and gave the door three solid knocks before waiting for an answer.

  _‘I’m at the back of the house. Just fly around.’_

 Yamcha couldn’t help but jump in surprise at the sudden reply, not only because he couldn’t see to whom the disembodied voice belonged, but that it seemed to come from inside his own head. Still, it was clearly Piccolo’s voice, and he knew Piccolo was capable of telepathic communication, so he wasn’t too bothered by it. He did as instructed, floating up into the air and making his way around towards the opposite side of the house. He hadn’t noticed from his view of the front, but the house was apparently under construction of some kind, though whether it was major repairs or new additions Yamcha couldn’t tell.

 He spotted Piccolo fairly quickly, the vibrant colors of his clothes and skin standing out splendidly against the background of white fields. Despite wearing thin fabrics and no sleeves, he seemed perfectly comfortable in such a cold environment. Yamcha supposed he’d just grown accustomed to the temperature of the area.

 Piccolo was currently standing atop the bare frame of a portion of unfinished roof, a long beam of wood held effortlessly against one shoulder. He didn’t bother to look up as Yamcha approached, instead moving the beam into place at an angle against a centermost beam.

 “Did you forget something?” Piccolo asked dryly before the other man could get a word of greeting out.

 “Uhh, n-no,” Yamcha replied awkwardly as he touched down next to him, “I just wanted to swing by and say thank you for helping me the other day. I really owe ya one.”

 “Don’t worry about it,” the Namekian dismissed before thinking for a moment. Finally, he turned to look Yamcha in the eye. “Actually, since you came all the way out here, I don’t suppose you have any plans for today.”

 “No, not really.”

 “Good. In that case, if you want to repay me, I could always use an extra pair of hands for a bit.”

 “Oh. Well, sure, I guess I could do that.”

 As soon as Yamcha agreed to help, Piccolo instructed him to hold the beam in place for him. Once he grabbed hold as directed, he watched as the Namekian floated up towards the top and started attaching the beam to the central one it leaned against. He had no need for a hammer, merely inserting nails into the wood by hand as easily as if he was sliding a pin into a piece of cloth. Yamcha tried to wait for a moment when he wasn’t so focused on his task to attempt to strike up a conversation.

 “So, what happened? Storm damage?”

 “No. I just haven’t finished building it yet.”

 “ _Wh-what?!_ ” Yamcha stammered out, his surprise nearly causing him to drop the beam he was holding, “You _built_ this whole thing?! By _yourself?!_ ”

 “I suppose ‘rebuilt’ would be a better word for it, but yes.”

 “Rebuilt? What happened to it?”

 “It burned down about eight hundred and fifty years ago.”

 Yamcha was struck speechless for a moment. Eight hundred and fifty years? Damn, this place was way older than he thought. Then again, if he thought back to what little he knew of history, he supposed the 19th century _was_ over nine hundred years ago by their current calendar. He’d just figured the house was a later recreation of some sort.

 “Wait, why are you rebuilding it, then? If it was that long ago, how did you even know it was ever here in the first place?”

 Piccolo paused before answering, as though he was considering whether to tell him or not.

 “It’s sort of a long story,” is what he eventually settled on.

 “Well, you already know I don’t have any plans for today. Besides, you’ve got me curious. It’d bug the hell out of me if I just dropped a scoop like this now.”

 Piccolo let out a small chuckle at that, shaking his head.

 “Stick to baseball, Yamcha. You’d make a shitty journalist.”

 Yamcha couldn’t stop a small grin from spreading across his face. Did he actually manage to make Piccolo laugh? Sure, it wasn’t much, but even that was an accomplishment.

 “So, are you gonna tell me, or are you gonna keep dodging the question?”

 “Yeah, alright.”

 As Piccolo began explaining, the two of them continued to work on building, their conversation hardly pausing whenever Yamcha needed to be directed what to do.

 “Alright, how do I explain this… After I merged with Kami, I learned from Mr. Popo that there was a little more to our initial split than either of us knew about. The split itself was largely guided by Kami’s master, the guardian before him. When he split us, he made sure to fragment all of our memories between us so that neither of us could remember anything. He gave Kami a few replacement memories, but it wasn’t much, and in retrospect they seem obviously fabricated.

 “In any case, after Cell was defeated and everything started to calm down, I began slowly remembering those fragmented memories. I haven’t recovered much so far, just bits and pieces of my childhood and teenage years, but it’s been enough to let me know that I’m missing out on a hell of a lot more than I know.”

 “Wow, no kidding… I had no idea that was even possible,” Yamcha commented, genuinely intrigued by the notion. He couldn’t imagine forgetting a good chunk of his life only for it to come trickling back bit by bit many years later.

 “What sort of things do you remember?”

 “Just a few basic facts for the most part. That story about us waiting in the mountains for forty years for our parents to rescue us was the biggest lie Kami was made to believe. While we did land in those mountains, we didn’t stay there long. We were found by someone. They rescued us from the wasteland, took us in… took us here.”

 “Oh, okay. I think I get it. The humans who found you adopted you, and this was the house you grew up in.”

 “That’s right. I have a very good memory of the way this place looked, so I thought perhaps if I rebuilt it and stayed here, it would help me recover more memories.”

 “Hey, that sounds like a good idea to me. Has it worked at all?”

 “A bit, yes. I remembered a little about the people I lived with. There was a woman I called mother, a girl a few years older than me, and a handful of servants. I don’t recall a male in the house, unless you count me.”

 Piccolo paused in his explanation, finally looking up from his work.

 “It’s starting to get a bit dark out here. That should be good enough for today.”

 Yamcha had been so engrossed in hearing Piccolo’s story that he hadn’t noticed that the sun was starting to set. He furrowed his brow in confusion, pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time.

 “What the hell? It’s barely five, though.”

 “We’re a lot farther north than you’re used to. The days get a lot shorter here in the winter. Come. We could use a break anyway.”

 Well, he wasn’t about to argue with that. He watched as Piccolo dropped down through the unfinished roof to the bare floor below, following immediately behind. They passed through a curtain of plastic draped across the nearest doorway and entered the house proper. Compared to the darkening orange sky outside, the interior halls were pitch black. This was quickly remedied when Piccolo reached over to the wall and pushed a switch, turning on the wall-mounted light fixtures running the length of the hall. He then proceeded down the hallway, clearly expecting Yamcha to follow.

 Yamcha followed for a while, but was soon distracted by his elaborate surroundings. He nearly passed by a small table set against the wall. It wasn’t terribly remarkable except for the small framed picture resting on its surface. He stopped, picking up the picture. It was an old black and white photo of a man in a library. That was strange. Didn’t Piccolo say he didn’t remember a man in the house? He was sitting at a small table with a pile of books scattered about, and he seemed to be reading intently from an open book in his lap. He wore an old three-piece suit that was probably grey or a light brown, but he couldn’t really tell. It was only when he was trying to get a better look at the man’s thin-framed glasses that he realized that he recognized this man.

 “H-holy shit…” he mumbled under his breath. This was a picture of Piccolo! Or was it Kami? He supposed it was so long ago that it didn’t matter. They were the same thing back then. Either way, this was pretty surreal. This picture had to have been taken, what? Nearly nine hundred years ago? Then his story was true…

 “Something wrong?”

 Yamcha nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Piccolo address him suddenly. He had to scramble to keep from dropping the picture he was holding, but managed to keep his grip on it.

 “N-no! Everything’s fine!” he insisted perhaps a bit more forcefully than was necessary. Piccolo merely arched his brow, clearly not believing him. Yamcha relented soon enough, showing him the picture he’d found.

 “Sorry. This just caught my eye.” He admitted, handing the elegant frame over. Piccolo took it and stared at it for a moment.

 “Hmm… I don’t recall placing this there. Of course, I suppose I _did_ create much of this en mass from subconscious memories…” he explained, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Yamcha, “I… I think I remember this… My older sister took this. She liked to try to sneak pictures of me, even though mother had strictly forbidden it. She didn’t want my existence getting out, lest the government come to take me away. My sister was stubborn, though. She liked to catch me in the library, where I was most likely too distracted by my research to notice before she snapped the photo.”

 He paused, a somewhat bittersweet smile forming on his lips.

 “I heard the shutter close, though. I chased her through the house, but she was quick and I hadn’t come into my power yet. I suppose being locked away in a gilded cage for eighteen years didn’t help that, nor did spending all of my waking hours with my nose buried in books. I guess I saw more of myself in Gohan than even I realized at the time…”

 Yamcha didn’t dare interrupt as Piccolo spoke of the memory. The Namekian’s eyes seemed to stare through the photograph rather than directly at it, as though he was seeing the scene play out in his mind. The younger man got the impression that he might have just witnessed Piccolo recovering another little piece of his old life.

 Of course, Yamcha’s self-restraint lasted but a moment before he felt the need to chime in again.

 “You know, you looked pretty good back then. That style of clothing really suits you. You should try dressing like that again sometime. Hell, you might even snag yourself a girlfriend!” he said with a grin, giving him a friendly nudge in the arm with his elbow. Piccolo flinched at the contact, as though just realizing that he wasn’t merely talking to himself. A faint tinge of purple spread over his cheeks as he quickly turned away, returning the framed photo where it belonged before swiftly continuing down the hallway once more.

 “D-don’t be stupid…” he mumbled half-heartedly under his breath, trying his best to dismiss the entire conversation. Yamcha merely stared at the back of his billowing white cape as Piccolo retreated from the rare friendly interaction. Was that what he looked like when he was blushing? It was very disarming. Humanizing even. In fact, if it were anyone else, he may have even thought it cute. A small smirk spread itself across Yamcha’s face. Maybe hanging out with Piccolo could be fun after all.


	3. Put Me In, Coach!

 Over the next several days, Yamcha found himself going back to see Piccolo more and more. It wasn’t out of any sense of obligation, like he still owed him one or anything. He genuinely began to enjoy spending time with the stoic old alien. He even became comfortable enough to tell Puar about his daily excursions. She was predictably concerned at first, but he’d managed to assure her that Piccolo had changed significantly from the Demon King she knew him as. He wasn’t sure how true that sentiment was, if he was being honest. Perhaps he was just learning about the person Piccolo had always been, which naturally made him empathize with the guy a little more.

 Today, the two warriors found themselves so far into their project that they were starting on the tiling of the last portion of roof to be finished. Yamcha was sure that doing such mundane construction work for a living would have bored him to tears, but somehow it didn’t seem bad at all with Piccolo there to accompany him. Sure, it was a little awkward trying to talk to him at first, but after a while he started getting a feel for his personality – most crucially, his sense of humor. He even managed to pull a genuine laugh out of him every now and then. Yamcha always knew when he got him good if Piccolo was too distracted to remember to try to hide his truly intimidating-looking fangs.

 Of course, he should have known that good times couldn’t last long when he was involved. The day had hardly begun when his phone started going ballistic on him. Reluctantly, he pulled his phone from his pocket, letting out an aggravated sigh when he saw what all the fuss was about.

 “Something wrong?” Piccolo asked. Yamcha replied with a shake of his head, putting on a bitter smile.

 “It’s my team’s coach. He bitching at me to go to practice today.”

 “I see. I take it you don’t plan on going?”

 ‘I dunno…” he grumbled out half-heartedly, “Truth be told, I’m pretty over this whole ‘star baseball player’ thing… It’s just boring now, and even showing up to games just feels tedious. I might not be anywhere close to as strong as you, or Goku, or Vegeta, but compared to normal people… I’m so much stronger and faster than all the other players that it feels like I’m playing with five-year-olds, y’know? It’s just… Just…”

 “Not satisfying?” Piccolo completed the thought for him. Yamcha nodded in emphatic agreement.

 “Not in the slightest,” he admitted somewhat sadly, “I thought having an easy job would make it better, but there’s just no challenge to it.”

 “Is there anything you’d rather be doing?”

 “I… I guess I haven’t really thought about it. I’d always figured I’d have a family by now, and I’d be able to retire on the money I made from playing baseball and just enjoy the rest of my life, but… I mean, money’s not a problem, but I really don’t know what else to do with my life…”

 “Well…” Piccolo began slowly, taking a moment to think through it all thoroughly, “How about this: finish off this season and announce your retirement at the end. You’ve only got one more game to finish off the season, correct?”

 “Yeah, that’s right,” Yamcha replied, a little surprised that he knew that. “Heh. I didn’t take you for a big baseball fan.”

 “Truth be told, I’m not really into sports. Of course, when you have ears like mine, it’s almost impossible not to overhear certain things.”

 “I see… Yeah, I guess you’re right. My current contract is up at the end of the season, so I _could_ just not renew it after this last game,” he thought aloud, getting back to the subject at hand. “I guess that settles it. Sorry to leave so soon, but I’d better get to practice before my coach has an aneurism.”

 “Don’t worry about it. We’re practically done anyway. I can finish the rest of this up in no time.”

 Yamcha gave Piccolo a quick wave goodbye before taking off into the air towards West City.

 

* * *

 

 

 As expected, when Yamcha arrived at the stadium for practice he was immediately buried under an avalanche of angry screaming from the West City Titans’ head coach. He endured everything from being lectured on the importance of responsibility to the sort of vulgar insults that would make a sailor blush, all the while he could do little more than apologize over and over again. Of course, the only thing he got out of the entire interaction was confirmation that getting the hell out of professional baseball was definitely what he needed to do.

 Practice itself was uneventful to the point of being a waste of time. It was the same old drills, the same old exercises, none of which were enough to even get Yamcha warmed up. He went through the day on autopilot, letting his body carry through the motions while his mind was miles away from the baseball diamond. He was starting to wonder if coming out here was worth it, if he wouldn’t have been better off just hanging out with Piccolo for the rest of the day. Certainly, it would have been more entertaining than this, at the very least.

 “Alright boys, wrap it up! The losers are here for their turn on the field!”

 Yamcha looked up when he heard the coach call out after a few hours of practice. The Satan City Devils were gathering in the visiting team’s dugout, looking on with distain at him in particular. He let out a sigh. That’s always how it went. He was always viewed as the primary threat – which was entirely justified – and he was always the main focus of his opponents’ plan of attack. Of course, their plans never came to fruition. No one could quite fathom how or why Yamcha was so much better than them, and this fundamental lack of understanding was always their downfall. He didn’t like it. It almost felt like he was cheating, but all he was doing was playing the game to the best of his abilities.

 Yamcha didn’t let himself linger on his opponents very long. He made his way off the field, dropping his bat in the dugout and not bothering to change out of his uniform before heading home.

 

* * *

 

 

 The Satan City Devils all found themselves glaring at Yamcha’s back as he wandered off the field with the rest of his team, some staring more fearfully than others. The Devils’ coach was particularly aggrieved – due in no small part to the Titans’ own coach making taunting gestures and snide comments at his team’s expense.

 “Man, the _nerve_ of that guy! He’s acting like they’ve already won the damn game!”

 “Haven’t they, though?”

 The coach looked back towards his players, searching for whoever might have said such a thing. It was impossible to tell, as they all looked equally dejected by the current matchup. Morale was at an all-time low, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to remedy that.

 “L-look, the scores ain’t written in stone until the actual game is over! We still got a chance to win this if we try our damnedest!”

 “Oh, c’mon, coach. Don’t try blowing smoke up our asses. You know who that is, right?” one of the players retorted, gesturing towards Yamcha as he disappeared into the home team’s dugout, “That’s Yamcha fucking Rekishiyoma! The guy’s never lost a game! Hell, I don’t think he’s ever even struck out once! How are we supposed to compete with that?!”

 The coach opened his mouth to argue, but the rest of the team was already mumbling in agreement about how hopeless it all was. Finally, he let out a sigh of defeat, his shoulders slumping in resignation. Who was he trying to fool? Of course they couldn’t win, not when their opponents had a monster like that on their team…

 “It sounds to me like you gentlemen could use a bit of an ace in the hole, so to speak.”

 The whole team looked up when the unfamiliar voice chimed in on their conversation. They all spotted a man sitting in the stands behind their dugout, his hands folded neatly over his knees and a serene look on his face, as though nothing in the world could ever go wrong. He wore a suit as black as the darkest night, and his wavy blond hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. The coach arched an eyebrow at this strange intruder. Had he been sitting there the whole time?

 “Yeah, what’s it to ya, bud? You here to spy for another team or something?” he grumbled out. That would just be his luck. Not only would they face a humiliating defeat, but another team would take that opportunity to snipe their best strategies out from under them. However, the man merely shook his head, his gentle smile never leaving his lips.

 “Oh, you needn’t worry about that. My interest here lies solely with Mr. Rekishiyoma.”

 “Tch… Of course…”

 “Ah, perhaps I haven’t worded that properly,” the man replied, bowing his head apologetically, “My interest here lies solely in seeing Mr. Rekishiyoma _lose_.”

 There was a murmur of surprise among the gathered players at that statement. Then, after a moment, the coach let out a hearty laugh.

 “Yeah, well when ya figure out how the hell to do that, let me know,” he retorted, giving the man a dismissive wave of his hand.

 “But that’s exactly what I’m offering you.”

 The coach turned back to the mysterious man, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Was this guy for real? Did he really know how to take out that unbeatable monster?

 “How?”

 “By letting _me_ play on your team for just one game.”

 “ _You?!_ ” the whole team seemed to reply in unison. Then, the coach burst out laughing once more.

 “Yeah right! The only way you’d be a match for someone like that is if you were the same kind of monster as he is, and I ain’t never heard of another player like that!”

 The man let out a small chuckle at that.

 “While it’s true I’m not a professional baseball player in any capacity, I can assure you that I am a far greater monster than he will ever be.”

 The coach felt a chill run up his spine at that last bit. The man’s cheery disposition seemed to evaporate in an instant, a cold and intimidating expression taking its place. The air seemed to grow heavy all around, and suddenly he felt as though he were staring up into the calculating eyes of the Devil himself, the demon’s hand outstretched and presenting him an offer he wouldn’t be allowed to refuse. He swallowed hard at the lump that had gathered in his throat.

 “A-alright, I’ll give you a shot. I’ve got nothing to lose by it, right? I wanna see what you can do first, though! If you’re such a ‘monster,’ then let’s see it!”

 The man’s serene smile returned at that, and he calmly rose from his seat. He hopped elegantly over the dugout, landing on one foot on the field before making his way out towards the pitcher’s mound.

 “Oi, Yamada! Toss the guy a ball, would ya?” the coach ordered, to which one of the players immediately complied. However, just as Yamada was about to gently toss a ball out towards the mystery man, he caught the coach’s eye. The older man made a small hand gesture down by his side, to which the Devils’ pitcher raised his eyebrows as if to ask if he was sure. The coach nodded, and Yamada wound up for a fastball aimed squarely at the mystery man’s head.

 What came next happened so fast that it took the lot of them a moment to figure out just what had transpired. The mystery man hadn’t even turned around – hell, he hadn’t even stopped walking forward – when he simply reached behind him and caught the ball just before it would have hit the back of his head. Only when he reached the mound at the center of the field did he turn to face them once more, that same carefree smile still plastered across his lips.

 “Oh, thank you, Mr. Yamada,” he commented casually as though he’d just been handed the ball normally. The coach couldn’t help but stare in utter shock, his mouth hanging agape. Yamada was his best pitcher! His fastball clocked in at just over a hundred miles an hour! There was no way someone could catch it like that with their bare hand, and without even looking!

 That, however, seemed like a parlor trick compared to what happened next. The man faced towards home base and wound up for a pitch of his own. As soon as it left his hand, the ball seemed to disappear, and a loud boom rang out through the field, shaking the stands and setting the stadium lights swaying. The coach’s eyes widened to the point that his eyes threatened to bulge right out of his skull. He didn’t need to ask how fast that pitch was. It had been fast enough to break through the sound barrier and create a sonic boom, meaning it had to have been going well over seven hundred and sixty miles an hour.

 The coach scrambled out of the dugout and onto the field, sprinting over towards home plate to see where the ball had gone. What he found was a baseball-sized hole in the fencing meant to protect the spectators in the stands from getting hit by stray balls, but he couldn’t see where it had landed after that. After a bit of searching, he found something a bit further to the left. There was an oval-shaped hole in one of the concrete steps that ran between the seats in the stands, a small portion of a baseball just barely visible from one side. It had penetrated the concrete at an angle. That was no fastball. That was a fucking _curveball_.

 The coach turned back towards the man, who was simply standing at the pitcher’s mound with his hands folded neatly behind his back, awaiting his assessment. Either he was dreaming, or this guy really was what he claimed he was. Slowly, a giddy grin spread across the coach’s face. They might just be able to win this one yet!


	4. Down and Out

  Yamcha found himself staring up at his ceiling long after his alarm had gone off, but he couldn’t bring himself to crawl out of bed. Today was the day of the last game of professional baseball he ever intended on playing. He wasn’t sure which was stronger; his dread at stepping onto that field tonight or the desire to hurry up and get it all over with. The announcement had already gone out that this would be his last game, that he was retiring from his baseball career after tonight. It was the only thing any sports commentary program could talk about. Theories abound about why he was doing it. Did he get a better offer in another sport? Was he being forced out? Was he involved in a doping scandal? There was even a rumor going around that he secretly had cancer. He didn’t bother trying to set any of them straight or tell them why he was doing it. He’d had his phone shut off for days now to avoid the calls asking for a comment from him.

 He was eventually pulled from his thoughts when he felt a tiny little paw tap lightly against his cheek. He turned his head to find Puar cat-loafing next to his pillow, a concerned look on her face.

 “Yamcha, you slept in all morning! You gotta start getting ready for the game soon!”

 Yamcha let out a sigh, but reluctantly sat up. She was right. He couldn’t just hide under the covers and hope the game just passed by without anyone noticing he wasn’t there. With all the hype that had been built up about the game, that was probably impossible anyway. In any case, there were a few things he wanted to do before the game.

 

* * *

 

 

  After quickly getting dressed, Yamcha first made his way across town towards Capsule Corp. He’d been avoiding the place for some time now, for obvious reasons. Bulma had promised that there were no hard feelings between the two of them, and that even though they weren’t together anymore they could still be friends. Easy for her to say. She’s the one that went and got herself knocked up by another guy. Yamcha attempted to shake the bitter thoughts from his mind. Once he pushed past the pain and anger, he genuinely wanted to be friends with Bulma again. This was a chance for him to follow through with it on his end.

 He landed outside the smaller residential building on the property, taking a moment to figure out what he wanted to say. After drawing in a deep breath and releasing it in a sigh, he rang the doorbell. It was nearly a full minute before the door opened and Bulma peeked out. Yamcha tried his best to force a friendly smile.

 “H-hey Bulma. I dunno if you heard or not, but tonight’s my last game. I thought maybe you’d like to—”

 “Oh, I _heard_ , alright!” she retorted before he even finished her thought. He couldn’t help but flinch at the tone of her voice, which was one he always dreaded hearing. “What the hell are you thinking?! Do you know how many people would kill to have a job like that?! And you just go and throw it away! Did you even think about what you’d do for a living after this?! Baseball’s the only thing you’ve ever been good at!”

 Yamcha had tried several times to refute the barrage of abuse hurled his way, but couldn’t get a word in. Damn, he hadn’t expected this sort of reaction to the news. He didn’t know how to respond to it.

 “I...” he began hesitantly before just giving in and just going with what he’d come to say in the first place. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a strip of paper. “Look, I don’t know why you’re so mad about this, and I know you never really liked watching baseball, but I thought maybe you’d want to come to this one.”

 Bulma stared down at the ticket he held out to her, but she didn’t take it. After a moment, she sighed, and when she looked back up to him once more her expression had shifted to something approaching pity.

 “No, Yamcha. I’m not going to go watch you flush your career down the toilet. You’ve gotta stop sabotaging yourself like this. No one’s going to want to be with someone who’s constantly shooting himself in the foot.”

 Yamcha was taken aback by that reply. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Furthermore, how long had she thought that about him? In a moment of ironic fortune, he was saved from having to reply when an infant’s cry pulled Bulma’s attention away from him. She glanced behind her towards where Trunks’ wailing came from before looking back at him with that same pitying look as before.

 “Look, for what it’s worth, good luck in your game tonight. I hope it’s worth it.”

 And with that, she closed the door on him, retreating back into her house to care for her son.

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha spent the whole flight on his way to the Northern District more or less in a daze, unsure how to process what had just happened. That was definitely not what he needed on a day like this. Well, whatever. Screw Bulma. She was the main source of his grief right now anyway. Besides, there was someone else he could invite that actually respected his life choices.

 He landed at Piccolo’s house, immediately feeling better just from being back there again. If you’d have told him a month ago that his one sanctuary on the planet would be the abode of that stoic giant of an alien, he’d have likely advised you to have your head examined, yet here he was. He gave the familiar lion-headed knocker three good hits before waiting for an answer. Unfortunately, even after a minute of waiting, there was nothing. He didn’t even get a message telepathically. Well, that was strange. Piccolo had never not answered him before.

 Yamcha concentrated for a moment, trying to feel for any strong energy in the area. He couldn’t sense Piccolo at all. Was he not home? Or had he simply gotten tired of the ex-bandit hanging around and was concealing himself? Yamcha couldn’t really tell. Either way, it made him feel terribly alone in the world.

 

* * *

 

 

 The stands surrounding Capsule Field were packed to the point of bursting, baseball fans from all across the continent eager to witness firsthand the last game of a legendary player. It was just too bad that said player wasn’t feeling very legendary at the moment. Yamcha had been sitting in the dugout, his eyes glued to the floor all throughout the opening ceremonies of the game. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to stand for the national anthem as it was played. What did it matter? What did any of it matter anymore? This whole thing was a farce, just like every other game he’d ever played. He only wished that this time, just once, he could play a game that wasn’t a complete joke.

 Even as the game started, Yamcha could not be roused from his gloom. The crack of wooden bats as they struck their targets, the cheers from the crowd, the omnipresent commentary from the announcers… It had all barely penetrated his consciousness. He didn’t want to be here, though he couldn’t think of anywhere else that would have him at the moment.

 Finally, he felt someone nudge him on the arm, causing him to look up for the first time in what felt like hours but was surely minutes. His coach stood over him, a cocky grin plastered across his face.

 “Alright Champ, we got the bases loaded! Now get out there and take ‘em home!”

 Yamcha replied to this enthusiastic command with a dull grunt of acknowledgement. He grabbed his bat and made his way out onto the field. The instant he came out under the glare of the afternoon sun, a great cheer rose up in the crowd.

 ‘ _And here’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for, folks! The Titan of the Titans himself, Yamcha Rekishiyoma, is up to bat in what is his final game! It’s always a shame when such a legend retires, but I’m sure he’ll give us a great show for his curtain call!_ ’

 He tried to tune out the commentators as their voices boomed out over the stadium speakers. He didn’t want to listen as they hyped him up. He just wanted to get this over with as quickly as he could and go home to sleep off his shame. He took his place at home plate and readied his bat, preparing for what would be just one of the countless home runs he’d hit in his career. The pitcher took one look at him and seemed to waiver, looking over towards the visiting team’s dugout as though expecting something. Sure enough, the other coach called a time out.

 ‘ _Oh, and it looks like the Satan City Devils are switching out their star pitcher, Toushiro Yamada, for their last-minute addition! Quite an unusual move! What do you make of that?_ ’

 ‘ _It sure is risky. Ivan Scherbakov is a completely unknown factor in this. Before today, no one’s ever heard of him, yet the Devils are starting him out against the only undefeated player in the history of the game? I hope this kid doesn’t get discouraged easily, because this is going to be a bloodbath!_ ’

 Yamcha watched as Yamada jogged off the field, meeting his replacement halfway. When he caught sight of the new pitcher, he nearly let his bat slip from his grasp. He was head and shoulders taller than nearly all of his teammates, and his long blond hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. Even though he’d only seen him once before, he recognized him immediately. That was the guy from the bar! What the hell was he doing here?! How’d he get on the opposing team?! And why?! He could have run through a million more questions about the current situation, but he was pulled back to reality when the umpire called out to him.

 “Hey! Are you ready or what?”

 Yamcha jumped as he realized he’d just been standing there staring with his bat at his side. He readied up again and waited to see what this mystery man could dish out. Scherbakov waited for his signal from the catcher, giving a small nod when he got the one he wanted. He wound up for the pitch, and Yamcha readied his bat. The ball was thrown, the bat was swung, and then an audible gasp came from the crowd.

 It took Yamcha a moment to figure out what had happened. He’d expected to see the ball sailing overtop the stadium lights at the far end of the field, but the sky was painfully empty. His eyes quickly scanned the field, but it wasn’t there either. Slowly, he turned his head back towards the catcher, finding the ball sitting squarely in the center of his mitt. Did… did he just get a strike?!

 “S-strike one!” the umpire called out after a moment of hesitation, as though he couldn’t believe it himself.

 A low murmur spread throughout the stands as Yamcha looked back towards the Devils’ new pitcher. Did that really just happen? No… no, it couldn’t be! He must have just been distracted because he recognized the guy! Yeah, that was it! That _had_ to be it! Well, he wasn’t about to be caught unawares a second time! His grip tightened around his bat as he readied up for the second pitch, something he’d never had to do before. This time he watched with intense focus as Scherbakov wound up once more and threw the ball.

 Yamcha’s swing hit its mark this time, and the ball went rocketing through the air well on its way towards the stratosphere. A satisfied smirk spread across his lips as he dropped his bat and started running for first base.

 “Out!”

 The sudden call from the umpire so surprised Yamcha that he nearly tripped halfway to first, but he soon righted himself.

 “ _What?!_ ” he called out incredulously, looking around to see what had happened. When he saw it, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Scherbakov was on his way down from what had to have been at least a ten-meter-high leap straight into the air, the baseball held securely in his glove. There was no way! That blond bastard _actually caught it?!_

 ‘ _O-oh my god! I don’t believe it, folks! Am I seeing things?! Rekishiyoma is out, ladies and gentlemen! This is not a drill! I repeat; Rekishiyoma is out!_ ’

 Yamcha could do little more than stare as the entire stadium broke out into an unbelieving roar, some clearly happy about this fresh turn of events, while others were just losing their minds over it. One such person was his coach, who was practically eating his hat when he finally wandered back to the dugout in a daze.

 “What the fuck was _that?!_ How in the hell did you strike out?! What the hell is going on here?! Aaaaghh!!”

 Yamcha couldn’t answer even if he could force his mouth to work through his state of utter shock. He’d just struck out. He’d _never_ struck out. Why was this happening all of a sudden? His coach’s expletive-laden shouting may as well have been the whispering of wind blowing through grass for all he paid attention to it. He was practically comatose, unable to do anything but sit there on the bench in stunned silence.

 He’d _struck out_.

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha managed to pull himself back to the world of the living by the time the second half of the inning rolled around. Normally his team would have an absurd number of runs by this point, with his batting all but guaranteeing four more every time he went up, but this time they were stuck with just two. That insane new player on the other team seemed to go easy on the Titans after Yamcha got off the field, letting two of them through before shutting down two more to end their turn at bat.

 Now the teams were trading places, with the Titans taking their spots out on the field and the Devils up to bat. Yamcha took his spot on the pitcher’s mound, trusting his pitching skills to redeem himself for that absolute failure before. Sure enough, it was the blond bastard himself who stepped up to the plate first, flashing him a gentle smile and giving him a small wave. Yamcha couldn’t help but grind his teeth in frustration. Was this guy fucking with him? Maybe that was his whole plan. He was just trying to throw him off his game. Well, he wouldn’t let him!

 He made eye-contact with the catcher, who looked none-too-pleased about being in the position he was in. Titans catchers were unfortunately prone to broken hands when on the receiving end of Yamcha’s pitches, and this one could already tell that he wasn’t about to be throwing any softballs. He tentatively cycled through a few hand signals, each one of which Yamcha shook his head at. Only when the poor guy’s shaking hand gave the signal for a fastball did he give the okay. He watched as the catcher immediately looked up towards the sky, crossing himself as he nervously mumbled a little prayer. He’d need it, if all went to plan.

 Yamcha’s eyes then locked onto the batter like a missile acquiring a target. He shifted his grip on the ball before winding up. He pulled his arm back, his leg held high in the air before slamming down to anchor him to the ground. His arm came around, and the ball left his hand with as much force behind it as he could muster.

 There was a loud crack, and it wasn’t the catcher’s bones, fortunately enough for him. Scherbakov had matched his speed and power, striking the ball with such force that Yamcha could swear he saw a long crack form on the surface of the bat. He was so stunned that he hadn’t even thought to repeat his opponent’s miraculous leap before to catch the ball. Instead, he watched as it was launched clear into orbit.

 Everything that happened after that seemed to fade into the scenery around him. The roar of the crowd, the amazement of the announcers, the screams of his coach, the celebrating in the opposing team’s dugout… He didn’t seem to hear any of it. As Scherbakov rounded the bases at a comfortable jog, Yamcha was left standing there, completely unsure if he was even in reality anymore.

 Who the hell was this guy?!


	5. The Game He Needed

 For the rest of the night, one could be forgiven for thinking that there were two completely separate games being played out on the field. For the most part it seemed like a normal – albeit tense – baseball game. Once the two star players emerged onto the field, however, it was an entirely different story. The rest of the players seemed to fade into the background, and the entire stadium became a stage for a one-on-one duel.

 When Yamcha and Ivan were on the field, the entire crowd found themselves on the edge of their seats, unable to take their eyes off the action. The two attacked each other mercilessly, with each encounter escalating from the last. The crowd regularly erupted into a thunderous roar at every gravity-defying leap, every record-breaking pitch, and, most exciting of all, the close encounters on the bases.

 These were what Yamcha was forced to concentrate on. No longer could he count on always knocking it out of the park, no more could he guarantee striking his opponent out. Most of their duels took place between home plate and first base, when the excitement hit its peak just after the ball was hit. He soon found out that, in addition to being just as strong, this mysterious blond man rivaled him in speed as well. Yamcha found himself having to sprint towards first as quickly as his legs could carry him, truly a first for his career. Even so, it was often no use. Ivan had beaten him there a number of times, leaving him in stunned disbelief as he was once again declared out.

 Yamcha wasn’t about to take it all lying down, though. Whenever he was sitting on the bench, he would replay the previous inning in his head, meticulously combing over every detail to find a kink in his rival’s seemingly impenetrable armor. By about halfway through the game, he had analyzed enough of his gameplay to come to a startling realization; this Ivan Scherbakov guy really was a rookie! He seemed to know just enough about baseball not to make obvious mistakes, but for the most part he seemed to be getting by on raw strength and speed alone. It was enough to impress normal people, but he was starting to see through it. The man’s actions were overly deliberate rather than relying on the muscle memory of a seasoned player, and he didn’t try anything fancy. Perhaps that could be taken advantage of.

 Yamcha didn’t let himself get too confident when he went out to pitch next. He may have had a plan, but his opponent’s raw physical superiority was nothing to sneeze at. Sure enough, Ivan was the first sent up to bat. Yamcha waited for the catcher to give him the signal for a bog-standard pitch. If his plan was to work, he wanted to make his opponent’s response as predictable as possible. He didn’t want to throw him any curve balls – literally or figuratively. He wound up for the pitch and sent the ball rocketing towards the batter.

 Rather than swinging the bat with all his might as he’d been doing, Ivan brought it forward into something resembling a defensive sword stance. The ball bounced off into the left infield as he dropped the bat and sprinted right towards first. Yamcha was initially caught off guard. He’d bunted it! Well, he hadn’t planned for that, but he wasn’t about to let his strategy get derailed by a goddamned bunt.

 He took off after the ball as it bounced away, diving to scoop it up off the ground. By the time he’d looked back towards Ivan, however, he found that he was already halfway to first base. Yamcha cursed under his breath. He wouldn’t be able to close the distance in time. Looks like he didn’t have a choice. He wound up for another pitch, launching the ball straight at the runner.

 Ivan spotted the ball coming towards him, immediately moving to try to dodge the projectile. However, in stepping out of the way of the ball, he briefly stepped outside the narrow path in which he was allowed to run. An effort to correct the mistake brought him back tonto the path of the ball, and he was struck square in the face.

 “Oh fuck!” Yamcha gasped out, cringing at the sickening crack of the impact. He didn’t mean to hit the guy in the face! Shit, that had been one of his more powerful throws, too. He’d just wanted to get the guy out, he didn’t want to kill him! He heard the crowd gasp in shock as Ivan stumbled off into the grass, all the while dreading seeing the damage he’d done.

 Much to everyone’s surprise, Ivan didn’t fall. After stumbling a few steps, he managed to get his feet under him again and continued on to first base. Yamcha was too stunned to feel relieved that he hadn’t just killed a man. Hell, it didn’t even look as though he’d inflicted so much as a bloody nose on the guy.

 Finally, the first base umpire snapped out of his own state of shock to make the much-anticipated call.

 “O-out!”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but celebrate quietly to himself at that, even though the crowd was rather vocal about their displeasure. It hadn’t gone _perfectly_ to plan, but his strategy actually worked! Ivan had stepped out of line just before he was hit with the ball, resulting in an out for interference. It hardly ever happened, and Yamcha had gambled successfully that his opponent would fall into the trap. It was a bit of a scummy move, if he was being perfectly honest, but in this case it got the job done.

 He watched as Ivan calmly made his way off the field, walking past a group of concerned medics and dismissing them with a wave of his hand. He then caught Yamcha’s eye, flashing him that same serene smile as before, the only sign of having been hit at all reduced to a small bruise that had already formed on his left cheek. Well, at least there were no hard feelings about it.

 

* * *

 

 

 Of course, there would be an opportunity for the smiling devil to have his revenge, and it inevitably came down to the final inning. Yamcha was up to bat once more, and that meant he would be staring down the inhuman Ivan on the pitching mound. There was one out on the board already, and one of his teammates had managed to worm his way onto first. The Titans were only down by one run, so there was still a very real possibility of salvaging the game and winning by the skin of their teeth.

 Yamcha could feel the eyes on him as he readied his bat, the tension in the stadium so thick it threatened to smother him. Everything relied on him beating out this blond demon and getting at least one more run. Despite the mounting pressure, however, he felt the sort of rush he’d not felt in years. It had taken him the entire game to figure it out, but this was exactly what he’d wanted. Finally, a challenge! He’d never been pushed this far to the edge of losing in his entire career, yet he’d never felt more excited in a game!

 The anticipation came to a head as Ivan wound up for the pitch, and soon enough the ball was sent streaking through the air towards home base. Yamcha had gotten used to the speed of it, though. He wouldn’t be getting another strike here today. Rather than attempting to hit it out of the park as he’d always done, however, he opted to repeat his opponent’s last strategy and bunted the ball out to the left infield. He didn’t wait to see how the other reacted to this move, instead dropping his bat and taking off at full sprint towards first base.

 His curiosity got the better of him about halfway there, and he glanced to the side to see where Ivan was. His eyes widened in mixed surprise and horror. The bastard had already retrieved the ball and was running at him at an unimaginable pace. Shit, this guy was faster than he’d thought! He put as much power into his legs as he could, aiming to beat this fiend to the plate before he’d gotten close enough to touch him with the ball. By the time he got within spitting distance of the base, he could already feel that bastard’s breath on his neck.

 Yamcha’s foot had hardly touched the white plate of first base when he felt something akin to a punch in the gut. The wind was knocked out of him for a moment, but he stubbornly refused to move his foot from the plate. He glanced up to see the giant that was Ivan towering over him, his gloved hand wrapped around his torso to shove the baseball against his abdomen. The intense look in his dark eyes was intimidating to say the least – a stark contrast to the tranquil expression he’d held for most of the game – but something about his expression betrayed that he wasn’t entirely sure whether he’d caught the Titan out or not.

 The two stood frozen there together as the umpire rushed over, meticulously inspecting their positioning to determine the correct call to make. As he waited, however, Yamcha soon noticed something that made him completely forget to worry about all that. He’d taken a glance up to the bruise he’d made on Ivan’s cheek, except, now that he got a closer look at it, he realized it wasn’t a bruise at all. It looked more like a smudge, like someone had taken a paintbrush and ran a streak of bright green paint across his cheek. Yamcha’s eyes widened in sudden realization.

 “N-no way…” he barely breathed out with what little air he’d managed to force back into his lungs. Still, the other man seemed to hear him, and he responded with a smile that showed off a pair of vampire-like canines.

 “Well, it certainly took you long enough,” was his quiet reply, the familiar sound of his deep voice putting the final nail in the coffin for his disguise. Yamcha couldn’t believe it! This entire time, he’d really been playing against—

 “ _Safe!_ ”

 The moment of revelation was spoiled somewhat by the umpire’s call. He soon felt his opponent’s arm slide from around his waist, which filled him with a sense of disappointment for some reason. He then turned to watch as “Ivan” made his way back to the pitcher’s mound to get ready for the next batter. Yamcha stared after him for a long while as he let the new information sink in, a small smile spreading across his lips. So that’s how it was, eh? Well, at least he knew exactly what he was dealing with now. He took a quick look around the rest of the field. His teammate had only gotten to second base, being understandably unwilling to push his luck too far with Ivan on the field. That was a decent enough plan. He’d take this slow from now on. He couldn’t afford to get cocky.

 The crack of ball hitting bat was the starting gun for Yamcha’s mad sprint to second. He knew he was the prime target, and he wouldn’t give that devil in disguise another chance to get him out if he could help it. However, he was struck with a sudden confusion when he found that he’d arrived onto second base with no sign of Ivan hunting him down. He looked up to discover that his opponent had gone after his teammate running to third instead. Unlike Yamcha, who’s training prepared him for the sort of speeds Ivan was capable of, this poor sod didn’t stand a ghost of a chance. The Devils’ pitcher easily intercepted him, holding out the ball to tap him on the arm with considerably more gentleness than he’d done with Yamcha.

 Yamcha cursed under his breath as his teammate was declared out. Well, there went all possibilities of winning there and then. Now the best he could manage was to tie up the score and throw the game into extra innings. It was all on him. He absolutely _had_ to make this run, and he had to distract his opponents from going after his teammates for an easy out in the process. As the teams set up for the next batter, he made a desperate play: he went to steal third.

 While Ivan was distracted with the new batter, Yamcha broke out into a sprint towards third base. His move did not go unnoticed, as a commotion rose in the crowd and all eyes on the field went back on him. His opponent noticed as well, immediately turning to throw the ball, not at the batter, but towards one of his teammates nearest the base. The teammate managed to catch it, but he was no Ivan, and he couldn’t catch up to Yamcha.

 Yamcha skidded to a stop across third base, panting lightly as he turned to face his rival once more. The look on his face suggested that he knew full well he couldn’t stop him from taking the base. That throw to his teammate was mostly for show, to keep from getting bitched at for letting the enemy team steal a base. Besides, this was what they both wanted, he was sure of it. The game wouldn’t end on a cheap out. It would all come down to the two of them and one last mad dash to home.

 Yamcha was practically shaking from the adrenaline coursing through his body as he waited for the next pitch. Finally, the instant he heard his teammate hit the ball, he ran for home. Ivan had to let the ball past him to keep from catching it before it hit the ground, meaning he had to go chasing after it before he could start his pursuit. This gave Yamcha the head start he desperately needed. He focused on home plate, running as fast as his legs could carry him. Soon enough, though, he caught a blindingly fast movement out of the corner of his eye. Ivan had started his run to intercept him at home. This was it! He could still do it!

 He was mere meters from home plate when he made a leap forward, sliding through the dirt in an effort to get those extra few inches on his opponent. Ivan was just as determined, diving forward with his gloved hand outstretched to try to touch the plate first. The great cloud of dust that it all kicked up stung in his eyes, forcing him to snap them shut, but he could feel that his foot had touched something. Had he done it? Had he actually touched home plate first?

 “Out!”

  _What?!_ That single word forced Yamcha’s stinging eyes open and he looked down towards the plate to see what had happened. His foot was indeed touching something, but it wasn’t home plate. His toe rested against the edge of Ivan’s glove, which held the ball firmly against the dusty white plate. He’d missed it by less than half an inch.

  _‘I don’t believe it, folks! What an amazing conclusion to an absolutely unprecedented game! The undefeated West City Titans have lost 12-13 against the Satan City Devils! What a night! This is definitely one to go down in the history books!’_

 The entire stadium broke into a cacophony of cheers, boos, yelling, and celebration. The entirety of the Satan City Devils ran out onto the field, all gathering around their last-minute addition to congratulate and hug the man for more or less single-handedly delivering them a win that no one thought they could get. The Titans’ coach was absolutely beside himself with rage, having already screamed himself red. The rest of the team could only sit there in stunned disbelief.

 Yamcha himself merely stood there by home plate, watching silently as the opposing team celebrated jubilantly before him. Then, quietly at first, he began to laugh. His laughter grew the more he thought of what had just transpired to the point that tears were soon gathering in his eyes. He wasn’t sad, though, and he was the farthest thing from angry that a man could get. Quite to the contrary. He’d never in his life felt happier. That had been the best goddamn game of baseball he’d ever played, and he was truly glad it would be his last.

 

* * *

 

 

 The mood in the Titans locker room after the game was somber indeed. No one even wanted to look at each other, ashamed that they had lost, and to a rookie no less. Yamcha himself didn’t want to bother with any of it, opting to avoid his team altogether and slip out of there before he had the chance to change out of his uniform. He didn’t intend to leave the stadium just yet, though. There was someone he wanted to talk to first.

 He made his way through the visiting team’s dugout and back towards their own locker room. Technically speaking, he wasn’t supposed to be back there, but he doubted anyone would try to stop him. He stopped outside the door, listening as a conversation faded into hearing range.

 “N-no, please! I-I’ll give you the biggest contract anyone’s ever heard of! Y-you’ll be the highest paid player in the history of baseball! I _need_ you on my team!!”

 “I’m sorry, but the deal was one game. I got what I wanted, and you got what you wanted. I’m afraid that’s all there is to it.”

 The locker room door then opened up, and Yamcha was greeted by the sight of Ivan standing there still in his uniform, the owner of the Devils clinging to his ankle and begging him to stay on the team. Ivan seemed to not hear him anymore, though, and he gingerly pulled his foot from the team owner’s grasp before closing the door behind him. Once the two of them were alone out there in the hall, he dropped all but the appearance of his disguise.

 “Sorry for crashing your last game like that. You seemed so dejected about playing tonight that I thought you could use a real challenge for once. I hope I didn’t go too far,” Piccolo apologized, rubbing idly at his cheek where his pale make-up had been smudged off in their earlier encounter on the field. Yamcha’s response was a grin that seemed to spread from ear to ear.

 “Are you kidding?! That was _amazing!_ I’ve never had so much fun in my life playing this game! I mean, what’s the point if I win all the time? There’s no excitement if there’s no risk of losing, and tonight was just… just…”

 Yamcha was at too much of a high to form a coherent explanation of how he felt. Now he knew for sure that this was the perfect end to his baseball career. After all, no other game he could ever play would come close to this one. And to think it was _Piccolo_ of all people who gave him such a game. He’d even went out of his way to disguise himself as a human and manipulate his way onto a professional baseball team to do it. Not only that, but he did it for _him._ No one had ever been so thoughtful towards him, no one had ever gone to such great lengths to give him what he truly needed. No mere words could describe how truly grateful he was. So, without thinking, he grabbed the alien’s jersey, pulled him down to his level, and kissed him.


	6. What Words Couldn't Say

 After the game, Yamcha hadn’t quite been his normal self. If you’d asked Puar about the state of her master, she’d have complained that he’d seemed to be in a persistent daze, and that the most she’d been able to get out of him verbally was a soft “I can’t believe I did that.” He hadn’t told her what happened outside the locker room between himself and Piccolo. Hell, he wasn’t planning on telling anyone. What the hell was he thinking? What had come over him all of a sudden to kiss another man? Piccolo hadn’t reacted angrily, to his credit. He’d just stood there, more stunned than he’d ever seen him. The two of them had parted awkwardly after that, and Yamcha hadn’t gathered up the courage to go out to his house since.

 He’d been avoiding everyone he knew out of sheer embarrassment all throughout December, but he knew he couldn’t lock himself away forever. With the end of the year came another one of Bulma’s extravagant parties, and he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he skipped out on this one. It was Christmas, after all. He really didn’t want to go, if he was being perfectly honest. He was still pretty sore about the whole thing with Vegeta and Trunks, and he really wasn’t looking forward to hanging around them. Of course, there was a good chance Piccolo would be there…

 That last thought had Yamcha blushing furiously. Christ, you’d think he had a schoolgirl’s crush on the guy with the way he was acting! All they’d done was kiss once, and it was something he’d done on complete impulse! So why did his heart begin to pound in his chest whenever he thought of him?

 Well, there was no way he could avoid encountering Piccolo forever, not that he intended to. He supposed it was best to just rip off the bandage quickly and get all the awkwardness out of the way as soon as he could.

 Yamcha’s apartment was fairly close to Capsule Corp., so he decided to walk there. He pulled his coat close around him, burying his face in his scarf to shield himself from the cold. They were too far south for it to snow more than once or twice later in winter, but that didn’t stop West City from getting quite chilly starting in December. He’d hoped that hanging out with Piccolo in the frozen north would have gotten him used to the cold by now, but he was just as sensitive to it as ever. God, he would give anything to have his long hair again. At least then his neck wouldn’t be so damn cold.

 He finally arrived at Capsule Corp. and made his way through the automatic glass doors adorning the front. The receptionist didn’t bother asking him his business, merely giving him a friendly wave and wishing him a merry Christmas. He was there often enough that the staff all knew him. He gave the woman a friendly smile, returning her well-wishing and making his way forward into the atrium.

 As expected, the Briefs family spared no detail in decorating for the holidays. Garland and lights were strung about everywhere, garnished with big bows of red cloth. Central in the massive dome was an equally massive Christmas tree which sparkled with lights and silver and gold ornaments. He would be quite surprised if they were not literally made of gold and silver. There was plenty of food spread out across long tables, a veritable feast for anyone who wasn’t aware of a Saiyan’s bottomless appetite.

 Yamcha wasn’t the first to arrive, of course. It was nearly dusk, and there was a smattering of familiar faces gathered there already. Krillin was there, seeming a bit tentative since the Cell Games. He seemed a tad distracted ever since the climactic conclusion to the latest threat to the world, but everyone had left him to his own devices for the most part. He spotted Gohan over by the food, gathering a modest plate before bringing it to his heavily pregnant mother sitting at one of the side tables. He had to admit he felt a little sorry for Chi Chi, having to raise two kids on her own now that Goku was dead. Then again, Goku probably hadn’t been too much help in that department. Besides, Gohan was a good kid. He’d probably help his mother far more than his father ever could.

 Before he could make note of anyone else, he spotted Bulma marching up to him with a rather smug look on her face. Yamcha couldn’t help but let out a small groan. Oh, this was not going to be pleasant, he just knew it…

 “Wow, I knew you were throwing your life down the drain with that last game, but I didn’t figure you’d fuck it up so bad. What, did you throw the whole thing for shits and giggles or something?”

 “I thought you didn’t want to watch it…”

 “I didn’t, but you can’t turn on the TV without hearing about it. They’re calling it the upset of the century! How the hell did you manage to lose to a guy that looks like he’d be more at home in a hair metal band than on a baseball field?”

 She ranted on like that for a while, continuing to mock and disparage him the whole time. This seemed to be how their relationship worked now; she would insult him and he’d stand there and take it. Honestly, he’d learned to just tune it all out, making just enough facial movement to fool her into thinking he was still listening to her. The more he had these interactions with her, the more he drew closer to the conclusion that the romance between the two of them had always been doomed to fail from the start. In the end, they’d only ever hooked up because each of them had found the other physically attractive, ignoring the blatant fact that their personalities clashed. Hell, he didn’t even have the advantage in the looks department anymore. He was getting uncomfortably close to middle-age, and his handsome face had been marred with thick battle scars.

 Bulma’s berating was cut short mid-sentence, as she seemed to have spotted something far more interesting somewhere past him. She stared for a long while, then burst into a fit of badly suppressed giggles. Curiosity soon got the better of him, and he turned to look. As soon as he looked, however, he felt his face instantly heat up.

 Piccolo was standing under the archway of the atrium entrance, clearly a bit uneasy about appearing in public. The reason why was immediately apparent; he wasn’t wearing his normal clothes. Today he wore a three-piece suit of light brown tweed, the coat left unbuttoned down the front. It seemed to fit him like a glove, the waistcoat hugging his torso and exemplifying his fit figure, his trousers just tight enough to show off how long and slender his legs were. Most striking of all were the round-lensed glasses he wore. They lent a softness that seemed to perfectly balance the hard angles naturally present in his face. What Yamcha had said nearly a month ago never felt truer: those old clothes really _did_ suit the Namekian warrior.

 Of course, some people just didn’t have any taste in such matters. Bulma’s attempt to conceal her laughter gave way, and she ended up giggling aloud.

 “Oh my God, what’s with that outfit, Piccolo? You’re dressed like my grandfather!”

 Piccolo’s initial response was to look away sharply, though Yamcha could detect the hint of purple blush that he was trying to conceal. He caught the alien giving him a brief sideways glance, as though looking to him for his opinion on the matter. Yamcha couldn’t help but blush himself. Could it be possible that Piccolo had dressed that way for him? Was it because he’d mentioned that his teenage self had looked good in those clothes? Having come to this realization, he couldn’t let Bulma’s comments stand. He turned back to look at her, a lopsided smirk appearing on his face.

 “What’s wrong? Jealous that he showed up dressed better than you?”

 This comment caught her completely off guard, her laughter catching in her throat before she stared up at him, bewildered. She wasn’t used to him returning her snark like that. He took the opportunity to excuse himself from her while she was still too stunned to stop him. He made his way over to Piccolo, touching him on the arm in a silent invitation to follow him.

 

* * *

 

 

 The two of them retreated to a more private area of the atrium, where they could still see the goings on of the party while assuring that no one was close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. They sat in the grass next to the small artificial stream that snaked its way through the interior garden, the sound of which couldn’t quite mask the upbeat holiday music in the distance. The two of them just sat there for a long moment, neither really knowing what to say to the other. They hadn’t met up since the baseball game, and Yamcha was sure that spontaneous display of affection was weighing just as heavily on Piccolo’s mind as it was on his. Finally, the awkwardness became too much for him to bear, and he just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

 “H-hey, look… I just wanna say… I’m sorry for what happened after the game. I-I don’t know what came over me, but that was totally uncalled for.”

 “N-no, it’s fine, really,” Piccolo assured calmly, though he didn’t seem capable of looking him in the eye at the moment. “I didn’t mind it at all. W-wait, no, that doesn’t sound right. I mean… It didn’t offend me by any means. I-it just _surprised_ me, is all…”

 Yamcha almost forgot that he was supposed to be engaged in a conversation at the moment, far to engrossed in watching the other man stumble through his response. Piccolo had always been so sure of himself, with every rare word out of his mouth having been carefully considered and composed. Now, to see such a stoic guy acting so flustered and – dare he say it – almost _bashful_ … Well, he was hard-pressed to find a way of describing it other than cute. Of course, cute though he may have thought it, bashfulness didn’t exactly lend itself to advancing dialog, so Yamcha found himself resorting to changing the subject to avoid yet another awkward silence.

 “So, uh… That was some disguise you put on. I didn’t recognize you at all! How’d you come up with it?”

 “Oh, _that_. Well…” The change in subject seemed to do the trick, drawing Piccolo out of his defensive silence. “It was something I’d used long ago. I can only vaguely remember it, but it was something I was sort of forced into having to do as I was coming of age. My mother’s family was tied to the government, and thus she was quite wealthy. There was some big formal party that was held with high-ranking officials there as guests and, as I was the only male child of the household, I was expected to be present. There were some politics involved, I’m almost sure of it.

 “I didn’t want to go, and mother didn’t want to make me, but we couldn’t risk the suspicion my absence would bring. I was aware of my ability to regenerate by then, so I cut off the tips of my ears with a straight razor and burned the wounds closed so they wouldn’t immediately grow back. My sister covered my face in thick make-up and bought me a long blond wig to hide my antennae and scarred ears. I’ve since gotten better at making it look convincing, but I’m sure I was quite a sight back then. If anyone had noticed that I was painted up like a whore, they were too polite to mention it. I supposed they’d assumed I’d been born with some sort of disfigurement that I was desperate to hide, which, as it turns out, was a rather convenient excuse for my prolonged absence in public, so we never denied such rumors.”

 Yamcha found himself positively transfixed by the story he was listening to. Piccolo certainly painted one hell of a picture, even though he seemed to remember it all only vaguely. Hell, it was a better plot than any movie that had come out recently, and he was tempted to suggest that the alien write a book about his memories. He kept the thought to himself though, realizing just how personal these memories were to Piccolo, and how much trust it took for him to share them with the former bandit.

 “So, where’d the name come from?” he asked after he was sure the story had ended, avoiding saying the name aloud to keep from mispronouncing it. Piccolo seemed to understand, giving him a small smile and reciting the full name somewhat slowly for him.

 “Ivan Aleksandrovich Scherbakov. It takes some practice to say right, I know, especially if you’re not used to Russian names. It was the name my adoptive mother gave me when she found me, which makes it the oldest name I can remember having.”

 Yamcha was slightly amused at how Piccolo seemed to slip into a bit of an accent as he told him his old name, as though that was the only way it could be pronounced properly. He tried saying it once to himself under his breath, but found himself stumbling over all but the simple first name. Still, it was strange to think of him going by anything but Piccolo.

 “Your family was Russian then? What was that like?” he asked, growing more curious by the second. The nation that had once been Russia was something you only saw in history books in the current era, the world having been massively reshaped by a cataclysmic explosion nearly seven hundred and fifty years ago. The eras before that event were known of, but seemed like such a different world than the one they knew.

 “It was certainly interesting, especially since I’d arrived on Earth during the early years of the Soviet Union. Of course, not being allowed out of the house much, I hadn’t had the opportunity to experience what it was like for the average citizen. Of course, I’d been far more interested in researching the emerging science of the time, and I wasn’t at all interested in politics. I will say, we didn’t really celebrate Christmas.”

 “You didn’t? Did it not exist back then or something?”

 “Oh no, it existed. It was one of the more popular holidays in Europe and America back then. However, with the implementation of the world’s first Communist state, they saw fit to enforce a state-imposed atheism alongside it. Churches were shut down, religious ceremonies were banned, and the only holidays we were permitted to celebrate were secular ones.”

 “Oh man… that sounds kinda boring. Uhh… no offense.”

 “None taken. Honestly, it wasn’t so bad. Actually, we used to celebrate New Year’s Day in a way remarkably similar to all this,” he responded casually, making a small gesture with his hand to indicate the lavish decorations strewn about. “We had the decorated trees, the gifts. We even had a figure that was nearly identical to Santa Claus, Grandfather Frost, who would go around with his granddaughter, the Snow Maiden, to deliver presents to children. It’s really not so different, and I do have some fond recollections of the holiday.”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but smile at that. That sounded nice. He could just picture how that old mansion must have looked all decked out in holiday decorations. It must have been a sight to see. He also made an effort to keep that detail about them having celebrated New Year’s Day as an important holiday fresh in his mind. Surely he could make use of such information in the near future.

 

* * *

 

 

 The rest of the night went smoothly, all things considered. Yamcha and Piccolo had eventually rejoined the rest of the guests of the party, both feeling considerably more confident after clearing the air about the kiss. Aside from Bulma’s earlier snide remarks, everyone was rather positive about Piccolo’s choice in clothing. Even Chi Chi complimented him on it, and she had never had a nice word to say about him before this. It was nice seeing the normally anti-social alien start to open up a little, even it was just a few words here and there.

 As the evening wore on towards midnight, the various guests slowly started taking their leave. Piccolo and Yamcha were among the last to depart, neither being willing to be the one to leave before the other. As the two of them were putting on their coats to venture outside once everyone else had left, Yamcha felt a hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t at all surprised to find himself staring up at the towering Namekian when he looked back to see who it was.

 “Hey, listen…” he started off hesitantly, soon breaking eye-contact after he couldn’t quite continue on as smoothly as he would have liked. Yamcha was patient though, and soon enough he was back on track. “Would you want to come back to my place for a drink?”

 Yamcha’s face immediately flushed a bright red upon hearing the offer, at which point Piccolo seemed to realize what he was asking. The alien sharply looked away, his cheeks turning a deep, embarrassed purple. Aw, well how could he say no to a face like that? Besides, it sounded like it could be fun. Bulma’s party had been decidedly family friendly, and he wouldn’t mind enjoying a more mature evening with someone he genuinely enjoyed hanging around with. He gave him a reassuring grin.

 “Hey, that sounds like a plan! I’d love to have a drink with you.”

 He saw Piccolo jump slightly in surprise, turning to look down at Yamcha as though to confirm that he’d heard him correctly. Upon seeing the grin plastered across his face, he responded with a small smile of his own.

 “G-great! Let’s get going, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

 The two of them flew together back to the frozen north where Piccolo called home. The cold wind whipped mercilessly at Yamcha’s face, numbing his nose and cheeks and coloring them a persistent rosy hue. Soon enough, the familiar silhouette of the Scherbakov mansion rose out from the gray horizon. They landed and made their way inside, escaping the cold into the relative warmth of the interior. They walked through the familiar halls until they reached the sitting room. It was the place in which Yamcha had woken up upon being rescued from himself that first night. A fire was soon lit in the fireplace, bathing the room in a warm orange glow and casting long shadows that danced along the walls.

 Yamcha had admittedly become hypnotized by the dancing flames, which is probably why he’d somehow forgotten that he wasn’t the only one in the house. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt someone nudge him on the shoulder, glancing up to find Piccolo standing behind him with a wine glass in each hand. He couldn’t help but notice that the stoic alien had since removed his suit jacket, leaving him wearing a plain white dress shirt with that light brown waistcoat over it. It was all so expertly tailored as to perfectly outline the general shape of his torso, which, admittedly, had Yamcha staring just a moment longer than was strictly appropriate. He soon shook himself from his daze and accepted the glass with a nervous chuckle and a quiet word of thanks.

 Now, Yamcha wasn’t normally much of a wine person. His typical drink of choice was beer, with certain hard liquors bringing up a close second. Wine was something he’d always viewed as a drink for old women and the wealthy elite. Then again, Piccolo’s adoptive family was apparently of the wealthy elite back in their day, so perhaps that’s where he got the taste for such things, as well as his manner of speaking.

 Yamcha stared down at the amber-colored liquid in the glass he had been presented, giving the alcohol a curious sniff. It didn’t smell quite like anything he’d ever drank before, but it wasn’t bad. It smelled sort of sweet.

 “What is this?” he asked finally.

 “It’s called mead,” Piccolo replied as he took a seat next to him on the couch. “It’s a Scandinavian wine made from honey, but it’s one of the world’s strongest wines in terms of alcohol content. It’s actually the oldest known instance of a human-made alcoholic beverage. My adoptive family had fancied themselves something of a group of amateur archeologists, and they reveled in anything that had historical significance. As such, mead became the drink of choice around our household.”

 Just the fact that Piccolo knew so much about the beverage was enough to prove that his family’s interest in history had certainly rubbed off on him. Besides, knowing all that made Yamcha even more intrigued by the wine. He curiously took a sip, and was pleasantly surprised that it tasted just as sweet as it smelled, though it certainly had a kick to it. He had to stop himself from greedily chugging the whole glass down, heeding the warning that it was quite a bit stronger than he assumed.

 Of course, even at the pace he’d set himself, he soon realized that he’d vastly underestimated the strength of the drink. It wasn’t as strong as liquor, but at least whiskey had the common decency to taste as harsh as it behaved. This mead tasted so deceptively delicious that he didn’t know when to stop until it was far too late. Soon enough, the two of them were laughing loudly together at shit that honestly wasn’t all that funny. They’d somehow closed the distance between them by the time they’d finished their second round, and after Yamcha had told a filthy joke that had caught Piccolo particularly off guard, he found that the alien had suddenly become comfortable enough with close contact that he’d leaned his head against the former bandit’s shoulder as he laughed.

 Yamcha didn’t mind, of course. He was too busy laughing at his own dumb joke to really notice what either of them were doing. For instance, he hadn’t realized when he leaned his own head against Piccolo’s, or when he’d wrapped his arms around the other man’s shoulders. Their laughter eventually tapered off when they found themselves nose to nose with one another, their foreheads barely touching. They could each feel the heat from the other’s cheeks when they’d realized just how intimately close they’d drawn to each other.

 The two warriors stared into one another’s eyes for a long moment, as though trying to gauge how the other felt about the current situation. Neither wanted to make a move without at least a subtle sign of approval from the other, yet neither was quite brave enough to be the one to do it. After a moment that felt like ages, Piccolo slid a hand around Yamcha’s waist, pulling him a bit closer.

 Neither of them were sure who had initiated it, but the two of them soon found themselves with their lips locked together. It might have been just as impulsive as their first kiss, but it felt decidedly different. This time it was a mutual act rather than a one-sided one, with both of them contributing quite eagerly to the interaction. Before Yamcha could process what was happening, he found himself straddling Piccolo’s hips, the Namekian’s back pressed firmly against the cushions of the couch. Their lips never parted, both still eagerly pressing against the other. He could feel Piccolo’s hand sliding under the back of his shirt, sliding tantalizingly up the small of his back. Yamcha responded by pressing his abdomen closer against the alien’s own, his own hand worming its way between them to try to unbutton Piccolo’s waistcoat.

 Whatever happened beyond that, alas, Yamcha had no recollection.


	7. Nothing Better to Do

 Yamcha let out a groan as consciousness slowly returned to him. He didn’t want to wake up. Not just yet. He was far too comfortable, laying there on the couch, and… His eyes suddenly snapped wide open as he recalled the events of the previous night, his face flushing a deep crimson. No… No, he _couldn’t_ have. Yet the surface he found himself laying on was warm and firm and not at all the velvet texture of the couch cushions that he’d expected against his cheek. He lifted his head slightly, looking down hesitantly as though afraid to confirm his suspicions.

 Sure enough, what he found lying beneath him was a sleeping Piccolo, his chin resting on the Namekian’s broad and muscular chest. A sense of panic rose up in his mind. Did they..? Had they actually..? Upon closer inspection, however, it became quite clear that nothing too serious had happened between them – though Yamcha couldn’t quite decide whether he was relieved or disappointed by this revelation.

 While the two of them may not have engaged in any explicitly sexual activity, it did seem as though they’d gotten quite intimate with each other. Piccolo was still fast asleep, seemingly oblivious to the compromising position he was in. His tie was draped haphazardly over the arm of the couch, the top several buttons open on his dress shirt, exposing numerous purple marks peppered all over his neck and leading down across his collar bones. Yamcha’s own shirt was on the floor, but neither of them had gotten far enough to remove their pants before they’d passed out. Of course, that being said, there had been no shortage of wandering hands between them.

 Yamcha was admittedly curious, and as he lifted himself up off the towering alien’s body he found his eyes wandering down towards Piccolo’s unbuttoned, half-unzipped trousers. He suddenly found himself extremely curious. What would he find if he just took a little peek down there? He knew Namekians were a mono-gendered species, but he honestly couldn’t imagine what that would entail. Did he resemble a man? A woman? Perhaps both? Or was his anatomy so different from anything seen on Earth that intercourse between the two of them would have proven physically impossible? He resisted the temptation to violate the other’s privacy on the matter. Besides, with the way things were progressing between the two of them, he was rather confident that he’d have the chance to find out eventually.

 He slipped out from under the arm that had been draped across his lower back, gingerly removing himself from on top of the other man. Miraculously, Piccolo had barely stirred from the movement. Yamcha had never taken him for a heavy sleeper, especially considering his sharp hearing, but he supposed the alcohol the two of them had consumed the night before helped to keep him unresponsive. Whatever it was, Yamcha wasn’t about to let the opportunity go to waste.

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha found himself wandering the maze-like halls of the vast mansion, almost immediately getting himself hopelessly lost. Piccolo had never shown him around properly, though he doubted it was because the stoic giant was trying to hide something. Rather, it just seemed as though he’d never thought it necessary. Surely neither of them had expected their friendship to last long enough for him to have to know the layout of the other’s home, let alone for it to have progressed to this level. In any case, he wasn’t terribly worried about not being able to find his way. He was sure Piccolo would come find him once he awoke.

 Eventually, he found his way to an area that he recognized, but not because he’d ever been there before. He’d stepped into a vast private library that stretched upward for at least two stories – the very same library that had been the setting of that old candid photo of Ivan that he’d seen that first day. The shelves towered overhead and were filled to the brim with elegantly-bound books.

 Yamcha furrowed his brow as a thought suddenly occurred to him. Hadn’t the entire mansion burned down at one point? There was no way any of these books could have survived the blaze, let alone the centuries since. Everything had to be meticulously recreated from the ground up from memory by Piccolo himself. Looking at this room alone proved just how impressive a feat it had been. He would have had to memorize, word for word, thousands of books and recreate them hundreds of years later. The sheer scale of such a monumental task made Yamcha’s head spin. No, surely not! There was no way he could have replicated all of these! They _had_ to be blank, merely empty props to fill out the library.

 He approached one of the bookshelves and was instantly surprised to find that every book in sight had a unique title emblazoned along the spine, most of which were in a language he didn’t recognize. It must have been Russian, knowing the owner. Still skeptical, he picked a book to examine closer, pulling it off the shelf. This particular book was well worn compared to the others, clearly having been read and handled the most. It also helped that it was one of the only books in English, which meant he could actually read it. Across the front read, “ _Relativity: The Special and General Theory, by Albert Einstein_.”

 Yamcha’s eyebrows rose at reading that. Was this part of the research Piccolo had mentioned becoming obsessed with as a teenager? Flipping it open to a random page, he discovered that, not only were the books not just blank props, but Piccolo had been more intelligent as a teenager than most adults Yamcha had met. The contents of the book, though he could _technically_ read it just fine, was absolutely indecipherable to him. The concepts contained within went way over his head, and the paragraphs were often interrupted by equations that – to his untrained eye, at least – seemed complex and convoluted. Still, the original owner of the book seemed to understand just fine. He was hard pressed to find a page that didn’t have elegantly scrawled notes in the margins, though these were all in Russian. There was one section in particular in the first part of the book where there were tons of underlined passages, the margins so jammed full of notes and math that extra bits of paper were stuck between the pages to facilitate the writer’s thoughts on the subject.

 After staring uselessly at a few more pages, Yamcha decided he should spare himself the headache and leave the book be. He set it back where he found it, turning to look around the rest of the library. The first thing that caught his eye was a grand piano that was nestled away in a large alcove at the far end of the room. His curiosity piqued once more, he wandered over to inspect the instrument. As he made his way around it, he saw his face reflected in the polished wooden surface, not a scratch on its immaculate varnish. He was almost afraid to touch it, as even a single fingerprint would have been as glaring as a splotch of red paint. Still, the temptation was too much to resist, and he tentatively reached out to lift the fallboard, exposing the ivory keys beneath.

 Yamcha couldn’t help himself but to reach out and poke at a few of the keys. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it was in perfect working order, a few deep tones resonating throughout the entire instrument. Of course, at this point, should he have been so surprised? After all, if Piccolo had enough attention to detail to perfectly replicate thousands of books, why would he leave a non-functioning piano there in the same room?

 “Having fun, I see.”

 Yamcha probably would have been embarrassed by the almost-girlish shriek that came out of him when a voice suddenly addressed him from behind, but he was far too busy jumping out of his damned skin to be so concerned. He turned on his heel, coming face to face with Piccolo. He was unable to tell how long the Namekian had been awake, but it was clearly long enough for him to dress himself in a fresh outfit. It wasn’t unlike what he wore the night before, though the main pieces were a charcoal gray rather than tannish-brown.

 Piccolo didn’t seem angry that he’d gone off on his own, so Yamcha supposed it was okay for him to be in there. Still, it was rather awkward to have been caught like that, and he found himself laughing nervously as he stepped away from the piano.

 “S-sorry! I, uhh… I didn’t mean to…”

 “It’s alright,” Piccolo replied immediately, holding up a peremptory hand to stop him from rambling on any further. “I don’t suppose you play at all?”

 Yamcha blinked in confusion at the question. After a moment he glanced down at the piano again, realizing what he was talking about.

 “O-oh, no, not at all. I never really got a chance to learn anything like that.”

 “Well, would you like me to teach you?”

 “W-wait… _you_ can play piano?” he asked in a slightly incredulous tone. Piccolo let out a scoff, folding his arms across his chest.

 “Why would I own something I can’t play? Of _course_ I can play it!” he retorted, sounding a little more like the Piccolo he was used to. He’d always been the type to rise to any challenge that was presented to him. “I can also play the violin and the cello, for your information. Mother was very fond of music. I learned to play piano before I could string a proper sentence together.”

 “No kidding! Did she teach you to sing too?” Yamcha asked, genuinely intrigued. Sure, Piccolo may have been named after an instrument, but he never expected the guy to be so musically inclined. Even so, Piccolo seemed to freeze at the question, turning his head away slightly to hide the tinge of purple on his cheeks.

 “E-err… Well, she _tried_ … She’d been classically trained in opera, you see. But while I was great with instruments, I could never get my voice to behave the way I wanted. We rather quickly decided to leave the vocals to my sister or my mother herself…”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but smile lightly. It must have been nice, having something like that to do with your family. He would have liked to see them play together, but he knew he was nearly a millennium too late for that.

 “Alright then. Teach me!”

 “Wh-what?” Piccolo asked, somewhat taken aback by the response.

 “Teach me to play piano! I mean, I’ve got nothing better to do. And hey, if I get good enough, maybe it’ll lead me to my next career, now that I’m retired from baseball and all,” he replied with a grin. Piccolo stared down at him for a long moment, as though trying to gauge if he was being serious or trying to poke fun at him. He seemed to settle on accepting the statement as genuine, gesturing to the bench before the piano. Yamcha followed the unspoken command, taking a seat before the long row of white and black keys.

 He suddenly felt rather intimidated. There were so many! How was he to memorize what sound each of them made? He could hardly remember what day of the week it was! Piccolo seemed undaunted by the prospect of teaching him, taking a position close to the bench. He offered a small pardon as he reached out in front of Yamcha, his hand gliding effortlessly along the keys, the instrument resonating with a crisp ascending tone. In the wake of his hand, towards the middle left of the keyboard, a rainbow of small circular stickers was left on each key, each one possessing a different distinct color.

 “Alright, let’s get you playing your first song,” Piccolo announced with a small smirk. Yamcha flinched slightly at hearing that.

 “W-wait, you’re going to make me play something _already?!_ Aren’t you going to teach me the basics first?”

 “These _are_ the basics,” he retorted without missing a beat, “Rather than bogging you down with technical knowledge that you’ll surely never understand just from a lecture, it’s far more useful to have you start playing outright. Reading sheet music and developing proper hand positioning will come with time. For now, it’s better to just get you used to the act itself.”

 Well, Yamcha supposed that made sense. At least he would be making something akin to music right away. That would get him some satisfaction, at the very least. As soon as he was ready, Piccolo began to call out colors, and he responded by poking the key that was marked with said color. It was slow going, but a tune soon emerged, and as soon as he had gone far enough to recognize what he was playing, he couldn’t help but blush in mild embarrassment.

 “H-hold on a second! Are you having me play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?!’”

 “Oh, don’t get so worked up over it. It’s the first song _anyone_ plays, whether you’re five or fifty,” Piccolo assured, though he couldn’t hide the amused smirk on his face. Rather than descend further into embarrassment, Yamcha retorted with a smirk of his own.

 “Alright, tough guy. Why don’t you show me what I could be playing if I had as much practice as you? Surely you’re good enough to be bored with kiddy songs like this,” he challenged cheekily, to which Piccolo couldn’t resist narrowing his eyes confrontationally. There it was – bait squarely taken. The Namekian waved Yamcha off the bench before taking a seat himself. Yamcha didn’t mind, as he was quite eager to see what the other could do. Surely it had been several hundreds of years since he’d last touched a piano. How well had the skill held up in all that time?

 Piccolo began playing slowly and methodically at first. As expected, he started with a classic. Some music was so iconic that it had survived even the cataclysm more than seven hundred years ago. He recognized the tune of Für Elise by Beethoven, though he probably couldn’t name it as such if asked. It progressed as he’d always heard it for a short while, but then it changed. The tempo increased, and Piccolo seemed to switch to more of a swing style. Yamcha was rather surprised by the sudden shift. He’d never pegged the stoic alien for a jazz fan. Then again, given all the clues he’d received thus far, the guy would have grown up in the 1920’s and 1930’s. Jazz would have been the pop music of his time.

 Soon enough, once he seemed to become more comfortable with playing after so long away from the instrument, Piccolo increased the tempo once more into full on ragtime. Yamcha would have never expected to find himself tapping his foot along to the beat of a stuffy old Beethoven song, but the arrangement presented was far too catchy to resist. As the song reached its climax, the tempo took a sharp dive back to the way it was classically played. It then slowed further, the notes softening until they seemed to trail off before the tune could be completed in a natural manner. Yamcha waited for a moment for Piccolo to pick it up again for some sort of finale, but when no closure to the song came, he grew mildly concerned.

 “Hey, you okay?” he asked as the Namekian’s hands slid from the keys. It took an uncomfortably long time for him to respond, and when he finally did, he didn’t take his eyes from where they’d been fixed on the piano before him.

 “Look, Yamcha…” he began softly, as though he’d been considering how to broach the forthcoming subject all day, “If you’re embarrassed about last night, I understand. You don’t have to try to make something of it if you really don’t want to.”

 Yamcha was genuinely confused at first, unsure how to respond. He managed to settle on a simple, “What do you mean?”

 “I mean… It wouldn’t have happened at all if you weren’t drunk. I know what I look like. I’m not your type. I’m not _anyone’s_ type. I’m not going to sit here and try to psychoanalyze you, but whatever reason you have for continuing this… whatever this _is_ … it’s not because you’re attracted to me. You simply have nothing – or _no one_ – better to do.”

 “Hey, that’s not true!” Yamcha found himself blurting out before he had a chance to think about it. Perhaps that was why he found himself struggling to follow up such an emphatic declaration when Piccolo turned to stare at him. He continued on with a nervous laugh. “I-I mean… h-hey, I wasn’t drunk when I kissed you the first time, right?”

 Piccolo let out a small sigh at that.

 “Yes, but I also looked _human_ when you did that. I know how humans feel about me – even _you_. I’ve spent my entire adult life being looked at as though I’m some sort of Eldritch abomination. I know that look all too well. Surely you can find someone better suited to your tastes than I.”

 “No, I can’t,” Yamcha replied. Much to his surprise, it wasn’t something he regurgitated automatically just to make someone feel better. It was how he truly felt. It was quite the liberating feeling; finally speaking his mind and sharing his feelings. He’d found that once he started, it was rather hard to stop it all from coming out at once.

 “I’ll admit, until recently, I was _terrified_ of you. You’re intimidating as fuck, and the fact that you were hell-bent on killing one of my best friends and taking over the world when we first met probably didn’t paint a great picture of you in my mind, but… Just in these past few weeks, I’ve learned so much more about you. Your kind, you’re thoughtful, you’re smart as hell, and you’ve got a bigger heart than just about anyone I’ve ever met. Yeah, I used to pick my dates purely on looks before, but look where that’s gotten me. I’m just as alone as ever because of that shit! I like you for who you are, looks be damned! Besides, you’re a damn handsome guy, and anyone who says otherwise is just too shallow to look past your skin color!

 Listen, I’m not going to stand here and try to tell you that I’m not confused by what I’m feeling, because holy shit, this is probably the most confusing time of my life. I’ve never even _considered_ being with another guy before, but you know what? _Fuck_ all that! I want to keep learning about you, I want to stay here with you as long as I’m able to! Hell, whatever it is that happened last night, I want to do it all over again and _then_ some! I… I _love_ you, alright?!”

 Yamcha found that, by the end of his speech, his heart was pounding at a million miles per hour. He’d said it. He’d said the three words that meant there was no turning back. He’d said them before, of course. He’d said them to Bulma once upon a time, but this time… _This time_ he felt like he truly meant it with all his heart and soul. He didn’t care how others would view their relationship. He didn’t care that they weren’t even the same species. He simply couldn’t imagine continuing his life any longer without Piccolo there with him. He’d been trying to put a word to what he was feeling for the past month, and now he’d finally figured it out. _Love_. He was in love.

 Piccolo stared at him for a long while, shocked into silence. He’d clearly not been prepared for a reaction like that. Hell, with how low the guy’s self-esteem seemed to be, having been raised among aliens who were naturally baffled by his appearance, he’d likely convinced himself he was far too unattractive for anyone to feel such a connection to him. After a while, however, it seemed to sink in, his cheeks flushing a deep purple as he turned away bashfully. For a moment, Yamcha was terrified that he was put off by his confession. Oh no… did he fuck it all up? Had he said it too soon?

 Finally, after what felt like forever, Piccolo responded in a voice barely above a whisper.

 “I… I love you, too…”


	8. Resolution

 Curiosity was an interesting beast. It can drive a person to do things they may not have bothered with under normal circumstances, all in the name of acquiring non-essential knowledge. Combine curiosity with infatuation, and you get the raw drive that would define Yamcha’s life for the next several weeks. It was about noon on New Year’s Eve when he found himself walking up to the entrance to Capsule Corp., a small scrap of paper held in his hand. Piccolo was still recovering bits and pieces of his old life, but it was slow going, and he only seemed to be remembering the time before he’d turned eighteen. Yamcha wanted to know what had happened beyond that, and he wanted to do anything he could to help him remember.

 There was also something that was bothering him about it all. Everything Piccolo remembered so far was pleasant, for the most part. He’d had a comfortable childhood, if a bit sheltered. What had happened to make the previous guardian hide all of his memories? Did it perhaps have something to do with the fire that burned down his old home? He supposed that must have had something to do with it, but he wouldn’t know for sure unless he dug a little deeper.

 He made his way inside, walking past the receptionist’s desk as he usually did, though he didn’t go in search of Bulma this time. No, this time he felt he would get more use from employing the aide of her father. He headed back towards Dr. Briefs’ lab, announcing his presence by knocking against the frame of the open door. The old scientist looked up from his work, the neglected ashes falling from the end of his cigarette as he turned.

 “Ah, Yamcha!” Dr. Briefs greeted genially, “What brings you back here to see me?”

 Yamcha smiled in reply to his greeting, taking it as an invitation to enter the lab. He’d always gotten along well with Bulma’s father, even after she’d moved on to Vegeta. He was always so laid back, no matter the situation, and Yamcha had even enjoyed a beer with the eccentric old man from time to time. He’d always been fond of imploring the younger man to come to him if he ever needed anything, and Yamcha sincerely hoped the offer still stood.

 “Well, I was hoping you could help me dig up some information.”

 “Oh?” Dr. Briefs replied, clearly intrigued, “What sort of information?”

 “Old records from the twentieth century. You mentioned once that you had contacts in the historical archives. I was hoping you could ask them to look up information on a certain individual.”

 Yamcha then handed over the slip of paper he’d been carrying, on which was written Piccolo’s old name in full, as well as a note indicating the year 1925 as his birth year. It wasn’t his actual birth year, of course. It had just been assumed, since he’d appeared to have been about three years old when he’d been found by his adoptive family in 1928.

 “Huh. Not a name I’ve heard before,” Dr. Briefs commented after looking over the slip, “If it’s not a significant historical figure, I might not be able to get you much from so long ago.”

 “That’s okay. I don’t expect there will be much to find on him. I’ll even take anything you can find on anyone named Scherbakov from that era.”

 “Hmm… Well, it might take some time, but I’ll let you know when I get something.”

 “That’s fine. I’m not in any big hurry. Thanks for doing this for me. I really appreciate it!”

 “Oh, it’s no problem at all. Before you go, are you planning to come over tonight for our New Year party? I promise it won’t be quite so boring and family-friendly as our last few.”

 “Oh, uhh… I wish I could, but I’ve actually got a date tonight. We were going to go out and watch the fireworks together.”

 “Hey, good for you, son!” Dr. Briefs replied, a sly smirk appearing across his face. “Well, far be it for me to keep you from a pretty young lady! You two kids have fun!”

 “Th-thanks! I will!” Yamcha said, though he made a point not to mention that his date was neither young nor a lady. He soon took his leave, taking off into the air towards the north.

  

* * *

 

 

 Late in the evening, Yamcha and Piccolo found themselves walking side by side along the wooded edge of a large field. The trees of the woods were mostly barren, but it was far enough south that the grass of the field was still green in patchy spots and free of snow. Many of the local townspeople had taken advantage of the fair weather, laying out blankets and folding chairs, sharing late night snacks and drinks with their families. The sounds of friendly chatter and music rose up from the scattered crowd, creating a not unpleasant ambiance.

 They found a decent spot at the edge of the woods a fair distance away from the crowd and settled themselves down on the bare grass. They were far enough away from the crowd that they could be reasonably assured of a level of privacy for the evening. They hadn’t brought any alcohol along like many of the couple down below, but there would be plenty of time for that later on in the night when they returned home.

 The two of them were sitting quite close to one another, which was a sure sign that Piccolo had become infinitely more comfortable around Yamcha. He’d never been the type to enjoy a lot of intimate touching, that much was clear just from observation. They may not hold hands or kiss often like a typical couple might be expected to do, but the fact that the stoic giant was willing to sit so close that their shoulders were touching meant just as much as any of those things.

 As midnight approached, the anticipation of the new year grew in the field below, and Yamcha was not immune to it. He turned to look up at Piccolo with a grin on his face.

 “So, got any New Year’s resolutions?” he asked curiously. Piccolo stared down at him for a moment, clearly confused.

 “New Year’s resolutions?” he repeated. Yamcha let out a small chuckle.

 “What, did you guys not do that where you were from?” he asked with a lopsided smirk of amusement. When the Namekian responded with a shake of his head, he decided to explain.

 “Well, it’s a New Year’s tradition. At the beginning of the year, you’re supposed to decide at least one thing you want to accomplish before the end of that year. It can be anything you want; something you want to do or see, or even something you want to stop doing. A lot of people tend to go with losing weight, but you certainly don’t have to worry about that, huh?”

 “Oh, I don’t know about that. I figure I could stand to lose a few pounds,” said the man without an ounce of fat on his body, a sardonic smirk spreading across his lips. Yamcha couldn’t help but chuckle lightly at the jab.

 “Alright, for real, though. What’s your resolution?”

 “You first. I only just learned about this today. Tell me yours while I think of something.”

 “Alright…” Yamcha relented, thinking on it for a moment. Truth be told, he wasn’t much more prepared himself, but he managed to come up with something. “I guess the responsible thing would be for me to find a new job.”

 Piccolo let out a small chuckle at that.

 “Ah, so that must mean you’ve also resolved to be responsible for once,” he teased lightly, giving the other man’s shoulder a small shove. Yamcha responded with a laugh, knowing he was joking. He’d grown used to Piccolo’s dry sense of humor over the past few months.

 “Hey, we all gotta grow up sometime. I just decided to put it off ‘til my mid-thirties,” he retorted, and the two of them shared a good-natured chuckle before getting back to the subject at hand.

 “Alright, I told you mine. What’d you come up with for your resolution?”

 “Well…” Piccolo began, staring off into his own thoughts, “I think I’d like to be less of a wallflower at Bulma’s parties. It seems like everyone’s gotten comfortable with having me around, so I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to talk to them more.”

 “That sounds like a good idea to me. Who knows? You might become biggest social butterfly of us all by the end of the year!” Yamcha relied with a goofy grin. Piccolo smiled lightly, but turned away somewhat bashfully.

“Hey now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll call it a victory if I manage to get out one decent conversation each gathering.”

 Their conversation was cut off at that point, as the noise from the people down below started to grow, pulling Yamcha’s attention away momentarily. He looked down on the field and noticed that everyone was now focused on the small stage set up at the far end. A large screen displayed the countdown clock, counting down the seconds until midnight. The countdown had entered the last minute, prompting the increased commotion down below. When the clock came down to the last ten seconds, the crowd below began counting aloud in unison.

 When the clock finally struck midnight, several fireworks were launched from behind the stage, exploding into huge blooms of fire that lit up the night sky. Yamcha could see all of the couples embracing down below. A grin spread across his lips as he turned towards Piccolo once more, hoping that they could do the same. Once he saw his face, however, his smile instantly evaporated.

 Piccolo sat there, frozen, staring up at the sky with wide, terror-filled eyes. His jaw was clenched so tightly that it almost looked painful, and his hands clung at the ground at his sides. Yamcha had never seen him so scared in his life. Surely it couldn’t be the fireworks, could it?

 “Hey, are you okay?” he asked, placing a hand on the Namekian’s shoulder. Piccolo suddenly snapped out of his daze at the contact, slapping Yamcha’s hand away and scrambling back from him in a panic, shouting something in a language he’d never heard before.

 “Woah, easy! It’s just me! What’s wrong? What happened?”

 Piccolo didn’t seem able to answer right away, merely sitting there panting lightly, staring at Yamcha as though unsure if he recognized him. Before he could fully calm himself down enough to reply, another firework exploded in the sky above, causing him to flinch and bark out a word that Yamcha was almost certain was some sort of swear. Well, that settled it; it was definitely the fireworks he was afraid of. But why? Surely this wasn’t the first time he’d ever seen them…

 Of course, it _could_ be the first time he’d seen them since reuniting with Kami. So, it was a memory then. But what could have possibly happened to make him afraid of fireworks of all things? It couldn’t have something to do with what burned down his childhood home, could it?

 Well, whatever it was, it wouldn’t do to stick around if they were going to freak Piccolo out like this. Yamcha reached out with his hand once more, moving slowly this time and well within his view, as though he were approaching a frightened animal. It worked, and though he still looked shaken, he didn’t pull back like before.

 “C’mon. I think we should go home,” Yamcha said softly. He didn’t bother asking what it was all about. That could wait for later. Piccolo wasn’t about to argue the point, nodding his head sharply and taking the other’s hand.

 

* * *

 

 

 The flight back to Piccolo’s home was made in silence as they wound their way up towards the north. They didn’t take the direct route, instead going out of their way to avoid populated areas that might be having their own celebrations with fireworks. Even so, Yamcha could see the Namekian flinch every now and then, likely hearing a blast too far away for humans to hear. Was it the noise that bothered him, then? Yamcha had so many questions, but he bit his tongue for now. He doubted he’d get an answer even if he asked.

 Finally, they arrived at Piccolo’s door. Once they were inside, Piccolo leaned his shoulder against the wall of the dark foyer, holding his head in his hand. Yamcha stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure what he should do in this situation. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. He had to resist the knee-jerk reaction of asking if Piccolo was okay, aware of the fact that it was likely the stupidest question on the planet.  It was quite obvious things were not okay, and he was torn between helplessly wanting to fix it and feeling guilty for having inadvertently caused it. Eventually, the guilt won out.

 “Hey… I’m sorry about tonight. I… I didn’t know it would bother you like that…” he said, deeply apologetic. He would have never invited him out if he’d known this would happen. Of course, to be fair, he was sure Piccolo would have declined the invitation if he’d known himself. Even so, Piccolo remained silent. Was he angry? Yamcha decided he must be, letting out a defeated sigh.

 “I’ll just… I’ll just go, okay? I’m sure you don’t want me around—”

 “No!”

 The sudden exclamation caught Yamcha off guard as Piccolo spun about to finally look at him. After a moment, it seemed that the outburst had been equally surprising to the Namekian himself. He caught himself, backing away and averting his gaze as though he were embarrassed by the desperation in his voice.

 “I… I think it would be best if you stayed… I’m not sure what will happen if I…” he trailed off there, and Yamcha could hear the strain in his voice. Piccolo was still terrified, presumably of being left alone. Perhaps that’s what worried Yamcha the most, and what determined his answer before he had the chance to actually think it over.

 “Yeah… Yeah, of course.”


	9. The Pendulum Swings Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take this opportunity to give a brief warning to my readers. The following chapter, as well as several that follow, will contain subjects that may be disturbing to some readers. These include descriptions of violence and gore, war, murder, PTSD, and reference to sensitive historical events. Please be aware of such things going forward and prepare accordingly. I would also like to mention that I am not endorsing any particular view on the historical events described, and that the thoughts and opinions of the characters in this story, whether protagonist or antagonist, are not necessarily ones that I myself share. Please keep this in mind as the story progresses. Thank you.

 The world in which Yamcha now found himself was far different from the one he’d left when he’d gone to bed with Piccolo the night before. The crack of gunshots and the resounding boom of artillery fire rang in his ears, only barely masking the shouts and screams of men all around him. The terrain all around was dirty and shattered, whole chunks of land exploding all around and staining the sky a dull brown with the dirt in the air. He viewed it all through a pair of round lenses, his breath reflecting back at him hot and humid off the rubbery mask covering his face. A gasmask, perhaps?

 “Sch-Scherbakov!”

 Hearing the familiar name, Yamcha immediately turned to find where it had come from. Even through the utter chaos of a warzone, he managed to find him immediately. A soldier clad in a khaki brown uniform lay amongst the rubble, a smattering of deep crimson staining his midsection. It was at this moment that Yamcha realized that he had no control of the body he was in. He sprinted from where he was taking cover over to where the fallen soldier lay, ducking as best he could as bullets screamed past his head.

 Despite the obvious danger, he seemed to place himself between his fallen comrade and the enemy, his back facing the hail of incoming bullets and shrapnel. He only managed to get a cursory glance over the soldier’s wounds before what felt like several white-hot pokers buried themselves into his back. A deep grunt of pain emanated from his throat, but he managed to stay knelt upright, gritting his teeth and bearing the pain as best he could.

 “You’re hit…” the soldier groaned out, and though it wasn’t in a language Yamcha could speak, he could understand it perfectly. He soon recognized it as the same sort of language Piccolo had used at the firework show. It must have been Russian, then.

 “Doesn’t matter,” came a deeper voice from Yamcha’s own mouth, speaking the same language. He instantly recognized the voice, which confirmed his suspicions. This was Piccolo. Kami. Ivan. He pulled a strap from across his chest, setting down a canvas bag with a red cross symbol painted on it. He opened it up and pulled out what looked like a huge mass of gauze, pressing it firmly against the soldier’s wound and earning him a loud shout of pain.

 “Whatever… Just patch me up before you check out…” he replied a little too bitterly for someone speaking to the man trying to save their life. Yamcha got the feeling that these two weren’t exactly friends. Still, Ivan didn’t bother to reply, instead working to secure his comrade’s wounds as best he could out there on the battlefield. Just as he finished tying the gauze pad firmly into place, the soldier’s eyes widened, staring off past his shoulder.

 “Behind you!” he shouted, but it was too late. Before Ivan could react, a hand grabbed hold of his gasmask, pulling his head back. It all happened so quickly that he hadn’t had the time to try to pry the hand loose before he felt a blade slash across his throat. He was then tossed to the ground, left for dead as his assailant presumably moved on to the soldier he’d been treating.

 Ivan managed to hold himself up on his hands and knees for a moment, his entire body trembling as he watched a pool of deep purple rapidly pool underneath him as it flowed freely from his neck. His panicked breaths became more strained as what little blood that didn’t leak from his slashed throat began to fill his lungs. His vision began to blur and soon he collapsed into darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

His hearing was the first to come back to him as he slowly regained consciousness, though the conversation that was happening nearby was heavily muffled at first. Even so, he could tell that it was spoken in a different language to the one Ivan and his comrade were speaking, one Yamcha had never heard before. Soon enough, as his hearing grew sharper, he found that he could miraculously understand this language as well.

 “Ah, yes. I have never met a man who would not resort to begging for his life when facing the inevitable. Please, amuse me. What can you offer me that would entice me to let you live?” taunted a man’s voice very close to where he lay. He sounded so smug and superior that, despite the clear and present danger, Yamcha really hoped Ivan would get up and punch this guy square in the jaw. Since that didn’t happen, he had to settle for listening to the exchange.

 “Our medic… Not human… Take him… I live…” This time Yamcha recognized the responding voice as the injured soldier from before. He spoke in the same language as the smug asshole, but it was clearly not one he spoke often. He apparently only knew just enough words to get by, resulting in very broken speech. The other man let out an intrigued hum, and there was a shuffling of feet around him. A moment later, he felt himself being lifted up to his knees. His vision was still cloudy, but he could just make out a man wearing a green uniform and an officer’s cap. He then felt his mask being ripped off, resulting in a collective gasp from those holding him.

 “Gott im Himmel… What _is_ he?”

 “Impossible… I slashed his throat, but it’s healed!”

 “He was right… The Soviets employ demons now…”

 “Enough!” the officer barked out, silencing his men’s frantic speculation. He too seemed mesmerized by the creature they had captured, staring at him as though he’d never seen the like of him before – which, to be fair, he surely hadn’t.

 “Well, well, well… I must say, this certainly is the most unique offering I’ve ever been presented with. It’s certainly worth far more than your life, to be sure,” the officer commented, clearly talking to the injured Russian soldier behind him. He pulled a pistol from the holster at his hip and turned back to the soldier just long enough to shoot him in the head. He then holstered the pistol, returning his attention to their captive.

 “Now then… Kraus, have a message sent to Herr Mengele. Tell him that I have a one-of-a-kind specimen for him… and that my handling fee has just doubled.”

 “Yes, sir!”

 “Shit, I think it’s waking up…”

 “Ensure it doesn’t. It’s a long ride, and I don’t want to take any chances with this one.”

 And with that, the last thing Yamcha remembered was the butt of a rifle slamming into his face.

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha sat bolt upright in bed as he was jolted from his sleep, drawing in a sharp breath. He looked around as though to confirm where he was. Gone was the blood and dirt of the battlefield, as he instead found himself in the dark yet familiar setting of Piccolo’s bedroom. He let out a sigh of relief. Just a bad dream, then. Even so, he couldn’t help but reach up and touch his neck, relaxing fully when he found no wound.

 What the hell was all that? There was no way a dream like that came from his mind. Sure, he’d been determined to help Piccolo recover his memories, but he didn’t think he was so obsessed as to literally dream one up. He glanced down next to him, where his Namekian partner lay. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his jaw locked and his brow tensed even in his sleep. It looked like he was having a nightmare.

 That must have been it, then. Yamcha knew Namekians were naturally telepathic, so it wasn’t too much of a leap to suppose that particularly strong dream could be shared by accident in his sleep. If that was true, then Yamcha couldn’t help but wonder how much of that dream had been a memory, and how much was a fabrication of a terrified mind. Either way, he supposed now he knew why Piccolo had been so afraid of the fireworks the night before.

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha never worked up the courage to tell Piccolo about his dream in the weeks that followed. He thought the stoic alien would be angry with him if he knew. It was a senseless fear, of course. The whole thing had been the fault of neither of them; Yamcha hadn’t intended on prying, and surely Piccolo hadn’t intended to show him such a thing.

 Since then, Yamcha noticed that Piccolo had grown more quiet than usual, which for him meant that he was rendered practically mute aside from a few occasional words. Still, to his credit, he didn’t try to distance himself and seek isolation, something Yamcha knew was his instinctual reaction to, well… _everything_. He hardly said anything, but he didn’t shy away from physical contact any more than usual. In fact, in the absence of his will to discuss what was plaguing his mind, he seemed to find some comfort in the small gestures of affection Yamcha offered.

 Yamcha, for his part, was torn between his desire to know what the hell was going on and every sensible part of his brain screaming at him to be patient. Even he knew you couldn’t rush such things, so he tried his damndest to follow his sensible side.

 As luck would have it, he would soon have something to sate his curiosity for the time being without having to bother Piccolo about it. It was towards the end of February when he received a text from Dr. Briefs informing him that the research project he’d left him with was finally complete. He’d never gotten dressed so quickly in his life, hardly getting more than two words of explanation out to Puar as he flew out the door. He was at Capsule Corp. in seconds flat, not giving the receptionist time to greet him before he dashed back towards Dr. Briefs’ lab. Upon his hurried entrance, the old inventor couldn’t help but raise a brow at Yamcha.

 “Goodness, if I had known it was this important, I’d have asked them to rush the job,” he commented, causing the younger man to blush in mild embarrassment.

 “O-oh, no, there’s nothing urgent about it. I’m just excited to see what they found, is all,” Yamcha explained, giving the scientist a goofy grin that he hoped was disarming. It seemed to do the trick, as Dr. Briefs didn’t question the matter further. Instead, he gestured to a file left on the table.

 “I must say, I’m surprised at how much they found on this Scherbakov fellow. The Russian government seemed particularly interested in him for some reason.”

 Yamcha didn’t like the sound of that. It meant that the Soviet officials of old either suspected or knew what Piccolo really was. He opened the file – which was a good half an inch thick – and started flipping through the papers. There were two copies of each document; one in its original Russian print, and one that had been handily translated. It all seemed to have been arranged chronologically, and one of the first things he came across was a reprint of an old newspaper article. It seemed to be about a wedding of all things, which greatly confused Yamcha until he began reading. A young woman, the beloved granddaughter of a high-ranking government official, was marrying a man of the poor working class of the time. It went on to celebrate how such a thing was only possible thanks to the advent of Communism; how class no longer mattered and how everyone was equal. It was your typical propaganda piece, even he could tell. The only thing he was unsure of was what this had to do with Piccolo.

 Then, he read the bride’s maiden name, and it all started to make sense. Her name had been Tatyana Scherbakova. This had to be the sister Piccolo spoke of! He turned to the next page and found that the continuation of the article included a photo of what appeared to be the most prominent members in attendance. The bride and groom were central amongst the group of course, flanked on either side by several other people. Much to his surprise, Yamcha found that he recognized two of the men in the photo. One was a face straight out of history books, his prominent mustache making it hard to mistake him for anyone else. A quick peek at the caption confirmed that he was indeed looking at the face of Joseph Stalin.

 Setting that startling realization aside for a moment, he moved on to the other familiar face in the picture. Farthest to the left on the bride’s side stood a man who was quite a bit taller than everyone else present, his long blonde hair cascading down over his broad shoulders. He looked terribly uncomfortable, as though he’d never had to pose for a photograph in his life, let alone one to be published in the papers. Yamcha recognized him instantly as the man who’d given him the challenge of his life during his final baseball game. It was Piccolo in his human disguise. It was Ivan Scherbakov.

 He skimmed further down in the article to see if Ivan was mentioned at all. Much to his surprise, he was. Stalin – apparently there to facilitate the propaganda story and to reinforce his public image as one of the common people – made mention of the family’s only son looking forward to turning eighteen within the next year so he could join the army and serve his patriotic duty to his country by helping to eradicate the “Nazi scum.”

 Yamcha felt a chill run up his spine upon reading that, recalling the dream he’d had more than a month ago. That man, the officer… He was a Nazi, wasn’t he? It hadn’t occurred to him before, but now that he thought of it, he felt stupid for having not seen it before. Piccolo would have come of age in 1943, right at the height of World War II. Now, looking back at the wedding photo once more, Yamcha felt he knew why Ivan looked so miserable. He’d essentially just been drafted into one of the bloodiest wars the world had ever seen.

 Yamcha set the newspaper article aside, moving on to some of the other papers. The next several documents looked to be military reports, which certainly didn’t bode well. Reading through them felt like deja vu. Ivan had served as a field medic for a year before his unit was utterly destroyed near the border of Poland. He’d been the only one spared, but had been captured and taken to the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp.

 Yamcha’s blood seemed to run cold at that. Once again, he thought back to the dream. The Nazi officer had mentioned taking Ivan to someone named Mengele, selling him off as a “specimen.” Now that he had the proper context, he knew exactly who that was. They’d taken Ivan to Josef Mengele, the Nazi doctor made infamous by his horrific medical experiments conducted on the prisoners of Auschwitz.

 The reports didn’t detail what happened to Ivan during the year he spent at the camp, instead picking up the story at the camp’s liberation by the Soviet Army. They’d pulled him from one of the crematorium ovens, burned beyond recognition but miraculously still alive. He was taken to a field hospital, but that’s all Yamcha was able to read. The rest of the pages were almost entirely redacted, consisting of nothing but thick black bars of ink over the text. The meaning was obvious: they’d found out what he really was, and he instantly became a state secret.

 “Quite the story that fella had. How’d you come to learn of him?”

 Yamcha jumped in surprise as Dr. Briefs addressed him suddenly. He’d been so engrossed in what he was reading that he’d completely forgotten he was still in the scientist’s lab.

 “Uhh… He was an ancestor of a friend of mine. I thought I’d find more about him as a surprise, but after reading it for myself…”

 “Ah, yes… I couldn’t help but read it myself. Poor lad… I don’t think anyone deserved all that.”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but agree, especially since what was readable was likely the tamest of it all. Regardless, he thanked Dr. Briefs for his help and left with the file tucked under his arm.

 As he made his way out of the lab, he found himself torn. Should he share what he found with Piccolo? Should he bother trying to keep it from him? Surely it was only a matter of time before he started to remember the war. Hell, there was no reason to believe he hadn’t already. It would explain why he’d been especially quiet lately.

 Before Yamcha could come to a conclusion, he spotted something that stopped him dead in his tracks. As he passed through the main Capsule Corp. doors, he came face to face with Mr. Popo, his unblinking eyes staring right into him.

 “I know what you’re doing,” the genie announced without prompting. Yamcha wasn’t sure what to say to that. Was he in trouble for trying to dig all this up about Piccolo’s past? It had been the guardian before Kami that had suppressed the memories in the first place.

 “Come with me,” Mr. Popo continued before he could come up with some sort of excuse. The guardian’s assistant then pulled a small cloth ball from his pocket, tossing it to the ground between the two of them. The ball unfurled before it touched the ground, taking the shape of a flying carpet. Yamcha hesitated, but another glance at Popo’s empty eyes told him that he wouldn’t be taking “no” for an answer. He reluctantly stepped aboard, and Popo stepped on just after, at which point the skyline of West City disappeared, giving way to empty blue sky.

 Yamcha jumped slightly at the sudden change of scene, finding himself in the middle of Kami’s Lookout. He looked around, soon catching Dende’s gaze. The child guardian looked just as confused as he was, lending support to Yamcha’s theory that Mr. Popo was acting on behalf of a former master rather than his current one.

 Mr. Popo hopped off the carpet and wordlessly made his way towards the guardian’s palace, clearly expecting him to follow. Yamcha stepped off the flying carpet, but hesitated to follow just yet.

 “Look, if this is about Piccolo’s memories, he started remembering them all on his own! I might have helped some of them come back quicker, but he would have remembered them eventually!”

 “I know,” Mr. Popo replied in his usual monotonous way, “I knew this would start to happen after Piccolo and Lord Kami reunited, I just didn’t know how or when _you_ would come to be involved.”

 “Wait…” Yamcha began, now jogging to catch up with Popo. “That would mean you knew I would get involved in this. How could you have possibly known something like that?”

 “Because you’ve been involved in this for far longer than you realize.”

 Yamcha came to a stop upon hearing that, his brows knit in confusion. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He’d only been involved with Piccolo for about four months, and before that they’d hardly ever spoken to one another. How in the hell would he have been a factor in any of this before then?

 Mr. Popo’s lack of response seemed to suggest that he planned to show him rather than tell him – or at least he hoped that’s what would happen. Honestly, any explanation would be greatly appreciated at this point, regardless of the form it came in. Soon enough, the two of them headed into a part of the palace that Yamcha was starting to recognize.

 Suddenly, Mr. Popo stopped in front of a certain door. Rather than opening the door to let them pass through, he instead bent down to open a very old looking chest. Peeking inside, Yamcha could just make out some neatly-folded clothes of charcoal grey.

 “Put these on and leave everything you have on you in this chest,” was the only instruction he was given. Yamcha was as confused as ever, but he knew better than to question Mr. Popo. He knew he wouldn’t get any answers anyway.

 He retrieved the set of clothes from the chest, finding it to be the same sort of old-style three piece suit that Piccolo tended to favor. He changed into them, combing his hair neatly back upon being instructed to do so, and put on the pair of glasses he was then handed. Upon looking in a mirror, Yamcha found that he was just a tommy gun away from looking like an actor in an old mob film. Not a bad look for him, actually. He quite liked it.

 “If you’re ready, come with me,” Mr. Popo said as he finally opened the door they’d been standing in front of. The room beyond the threshold was pitch black, a dim spotlight in the center the only source of light. As he walked in, Yamcha took notice of the large pendulum swinging back and forth above his head. He remembered this room well. It was the Pendulum Room, a chamber where one could experience the events of the past. He’d become intimately familiar with the room when he, Krillin, Tien, and Chiaotzu were training in preparation for Vegeta and Nappa’s attack on Earth. The four of them had been sent back to the Saiyan home planet to fight and train, a truly brutal experience that he didn’t have fond memories of.

 Mr. Popo didn’t seem interested in Yamcha’s clear hesitation at the situation, approaching him to hand him a small manila envelope.

 “Take this and do not lose it. These documents will get you through the checkpoints.”

 “Wait, what? What checkpoints?” Yamcha asked in utter confusion, but it was too late to get anything else out of him. Popo was already at the Pendulum Room controls, activating whatever ancient mechanism would send him back through time and space. Before he had time to protest, Yamcha watched as the darkness of the pendulum room melted away, revealing a place entirely different.


	10. Broken

 Compared to the darkness of the Pendulum Room, even the light from the dreary, overcast day he now found himself standing beneath was enough to make him snap his eyes shut instantly. After a moment, his eyes adjusted, and he was able to look around a bit. He was standing off to the side of a structure that was so large that he hesitated to call it a tent, even though that was clearly what it was. Several more such tents peppered the area, and the snow-packed dirt tracks that connected it all were populated by military personnel, doctors, and nurses, as well as the occasional jeep passing through. He’d have been confused about where he was, but luckily he was presented this orgy of evidence that he was standing on the grounds of a military field hospital.

 “You! Hey, you!”

 Yamcha jumped at the sudden shout which, as his luck would have it, was clearly directed at him. Dammit, and here he’d thought the clothes Mr. Popo had given him were meant to make him blend in more! He turned, spotting a man jogging towards him. Thankfully it hadn’t been one of the soldiers milling about the area, but one of the doctors. He approached with purpose, clearly looking to reprimand him for being in an area he clearly wasn’t permitted to be in. As he neared, however, his demeanor seemed to change.

 The doctor seemed to be staring at Yamcha’s breast pocket, where there was a small badge pinned. Yamcha hadn’t known what it said back when he’d put it on at the Lookout, the lettering having been in Russian, but it clearly meant something to this man. He went slightly pale, looking back up at Yamcha as though he was the one who’d stepped out of line.

 “M-my, apologies, sir! I hadn’t realized… W-we weren’t expecting you for another several hours, so I merely assumed you were…”

 As the doctor rambled on nervously, Yamcha noticed that he was doing so in Russian, but just like the dream he’d shared with Piccolo, he was able to understand. Did this magical translation work both ways, he wondered? He was just daring enough to give it a shot.

 “Nevermind all that,” he began, trying to hide his surprise at his own voice as the words passed his lips in perfect Russian. It almost gave him chills to hear it. Everything sounded so much more intimidating in that language. It kind of made him feel like a badass. He definitely had to convince Piccolo to teach it to him when he got back. In the meantime, however, he supposed he had work to do. He just hoped he could get this fellow to tell him exactly what that work was, because he hadn’t the foggiest idea.

 “I assume that, since you know who I am, you also know why I’m here.”

 “O-oh, yes, of course! Right this way!”

 With that, the doctor turned and led Yamcha through the door of the very tent he’d been standing next to. Inside was one of what he assumed was the hospital’s many post-op wards, rows of cots packed together like sardines lining each wall. The faces of the cots’ occupants were those of broken and battered men, each staring off into nothingness with empty, hopeless expressions. Many were missing limbs, while others were so emaciated that they looked like barely-living skeletons with skin pulled taught over their bones. As he passed down the corridor between the beds, each of them stared at him as though he was the grim reaper himself. Theirs was not a look of horror, though. Merely one of resignation.

 “The one you’re looking for is here,” the doctor explained, gesturing to a bed at the far wall. Unlike the others, this one had a white curtain set up around it to keep anyone from seeing the wretched soul that lay behind it. As they neared it, Yamcha could sense a ki that was weak by his standards, but far greater than anyone that was currently around him. Furthermore, this ki felt familiar. He quickened his pace slightly, getting ahead of the doctor.

 “Thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here.”

 The doctor stopped in his tracks at the order, clearly confused but not brave enough to question him.

 “Err… Y-yes, of course. If you need anything, merely ask one of the nurses to fetch it for you.”

 And with that, the doctor hurried away, clearly relieved to be free from him. Once it seemed like no one was looking, Yamcha took a quick look down at his badge. As he’d hoped, the Pendulum Room’s translation worked for reading as well. Though he could understand the letters, however, it didn’t seem to help him. NKGB… It must have been an acronym for something, but the meaning was lost upon him. He supposed it was enough for him to know that he was some sort government agent that no one really wanted to mess with. This was turning out to be a bit more like James Bond than he’d initially thought, but he’d roll with it as long as he could.

 Turning back to the curtain-obscured bed, Yamcha’s newfound badassery seemed to melt away into a queasy nervousness. He knew exactly who was behind the curtain, but he wasn’t sure he could stomach seeing it for himself. The reports had said that Ivan was pulled from one of the ovens, burnt so badly that they couldn’t even tell he wasn’t human. What a horrifying sight that must have been, and he knew it would only pain him more to see it because he knew and loved the man he would one day become.

 Preparing himself for the worst, Yamcha parted the curtains and slipped inside. What lay before him seemed to be more bandage than man, a veritable mummy wrapped head to toe in gauze rolls. Only his eyes and mouth were left exposed, and what little Yamcha could see through those openings looked like black leather, dark purple flesh barely visible between the cracks in his charred skin. He seemed far thinner than usual even with the bandages, likely just as malnourished as all the other men he’d seen. That would explain why he hadn’t healed himself yet; he hadn’t enough energy left to do so.

 The dark eyes that stared up at him held the same look of hopeless resignation as all the other men, his breaths haggard and strained, his lungs clearly as burnt as the rest of his body.

 “So… my turn now, is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse, spoken through gritted teeth. Yamcha couldn’t imagine the pain he must be in at that moment, especially since he highly doubted this hospital was well stocked in pain killers.

 “Your turn for what?” he asked, earning him a bitter hiss from Ivan.

 “Do not play coy with me… I have heard the questions they ask any soldier rescued from Auschwitz. We are all assumed to be traitors; we are assumed to have been tortured onto giving information to those Nazi bastards, and there’s nothing I nor anyone else could say that will convince you otherwise. Our fates are already decided in your eyes, so just skip to the end and put a bullet in my head right now…”

 “Th-that’s… That’s horrible! Why would they do such a thing?” Yamcha asked, momentarily forgetting the roll he was meant to be playing.

 “You tell me, _‘comrade,’_ ” he replied, spitting out that last word with particular venom. Ivan then turned his eyes away, the most he could do to communicate that he was done talking. Yamcha wasn’t going to just let it end there, though. He leaned over so that it was impossible for him to avoid looking at him, drawing closer to Ivan’s face as a result.

 “W-wait… What if I told you I’m not really who you think I am?”

 Ivan seemed to stare at him incredulously at this point, glancing down at his badge before looking up at his face once more.

 “You must think I’m an idiot. Why should I believe something any five-year-old could see through? You think I will talk if you say you aren’t a government agent? Fine, I’ll humor you. I spent nearly a year in that hellhole, subjected over and over to the knife of a madman who had the nerve to call himself a doctor. I was asked many things about the Soviet Union and their plans, none of which I knew. I was a goddamned field medic. What the hell would I know that either side would care about? I wasn’t told a damn thing that would make a difference in this war. Now, if you’re satisfied, either kill me or leave me to rot in peace…”

 Yamcha had to admit he was impressed by how Ivan managed to maintain that kind of standoffish attitude in the condition he was in, already starting to sound like the Piccolo he knew. Had he always been so hard and stubborn, or was it a result of the year he’d spent in the death camp?

 Yamcha wasn’t going to back down, though. He couldn’t just leave him there, not like this. He had to find some way to get Ivan out of there before the agent he was impersonating showed up for real. But what would convince the understandably-wary alien that he was telling the truth?

 “Listen…” he began, lowering his voice to a whisper so he couldn’t be overheard, “I know what you are. I know you’re not human.”

 Ivan seemed to tense at that, but didn’t seem terribly surprised. There was a small hint of fear in his eyes now, though.

 “I see…” Ivan replied, his voice lowering to match, “So now you threaten me with a lifetime of medical torture the likes of which I’ve already experienced over this past agonizing year? I had hoped I could blame such treatment on the evil of the Nazis, but now I see that I can expect no better from the country I had fought for, the country I call home… And I expect I would have been treated no different had I been recovered by the British or the Americans. I suppose, then, that such cruelty is merely in the nature of all humans, regardless of nationality or ideology. If that is the case, then all hope is lost, and the only way to put an end to all of this pain and suffering is death…”

 Yamcha found himself at a loss for words. Not only was this the third time in the span of about five minutes that Ivan had subtly suggested that he kill him, but he felt that he was witnessing the moment that Kami had lost his faith in humanity, paving the way to Piccolo’s emergence as the Great Demon King. Though such an evolution was inevitable, and obviously unstoppable, Yamcha felt the urge to try and correct course.

 “Th-that’s not true! Look, I know you probably won’t believe me, but despite all of the horror you’ve seen here, there are still good humans out there! What about your mother? And your sister? Surely they’re still good people in your eyes! I know it may not seem like it now, but there are many more good humans just like them all over the world; people who are willing and able to look past your outward appearance and love you for the man you are inside! Please, you can’t give up hope! I… I won’t let you!”

 Yamcha wasn’t sure where all that had come from, unsure of what he was saying before he’d blurted it all out. Ivan seemed equally as stunned, merely staring up at him for a long while. Finally, when he replied, his voice came out in an incredulous whisper that was barely audible, his dark eyes staring wide and unbelieving.

 “You… You really _aren’t_ here to interrogate me, are you?”

 “No,” Yamcha replied with a newfound burst of confidence, resting his hand on the injured man’s chest, “I’m here to bust you out.”

 With that, he pumped as much energy through his palm into Ivan’s body as he thought he could handle. Ivan drew in a sharp gasp, his back arching up off the cot he lay in as ki surged though his depleted veins. Once the transfer was complete, the bandaged alien sat bolt upright where he was barely able to move before, his charred, blackened skin giving way to fresh greenish purple flesh under his bandages as his cells began regenerating at their optimal rate. Ivan stared for a moment at his hands, as if amazed that he was able to move them once again after so long confined helplessly to a hospital bed. He looked up towards Yamcha in amazement, to which the ex-bandit could only answer with a cocky smirk.

 “Let’s get you home, buddy.”

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha realized quite rapidly that his decision to break Ivan out of the medical camp was the most spontaneous thing he’d ever thought to do. As soon as Ivan was able to walk, he led him out by the hand through the packed ward, drawing stunned stares from nursing staff and patients alike. He honestly hadn’t thought out even the semblance of a plan, instead relying on his knack for quick thinking and improvisation. As they burst through the doors out into the snow-covered campsite, Yamcha immediately turned to Ivan and grasped him by the wrist, pulling him close.

 “Just play along, got it?” he whispered so low that he could barely hear himself. Ivan heard well enough anyway, giving a sharp nod of understanding. When he turned back to the now gawking crowd of doctors and military personnel, he made sure to put on his best “pompous government agent” face.

 “Come on, then! That’s enough struggling out of you! You’ll be coming with me, and that’s that!”

 “Fuck you, you sorry son of a bitch! I have done nothing wrong! I am a true patriot! Your accusations are a stain on the Motherland and all she represents! I will not stand for such insult! Stalin himself can go fuck himself, for all I care!!” Ivan shouted, pretending to fight against Yamcha’s grip with all his might, but to no avail. Honestly, Yamcha was a tad surprised at the man’s level of acting, but he supposed it did the trick. A member of the military police approached them, his rifle drawn and aimed squarely towards his bandaged prisoner.

 “What’s going on here?!” he asked, glancing between the two of them in confusion, yet clearly deciding that Yamcha was the one in the right here. As if to emphasize what this soldier clearly already knew, he tapped his free hand against his prominent NKGB badge.

 “I have orders to take this man back for a thorough interrogation! Quickly, give me anything you may have to restrain him and get me some transport immediately!”

 “I have served my country faithfully, yet this is the thanks I get?! Lenin would be rolling in his grave if only he knew of this sorry state of affairs!”

 The MP looked between the two of them almost in a panic, clearly distracted by the scene Ivan was making. Eventually, he produced a pair of handcuffs, handing them over to who he perceived to be a superior government officer. Yamcha quickly used them to bind Ivan’s hands behind his back, though the injured prisoner fought him the entire way. Once he was secure, Yamcha turned back to the soldier and motioned with his head to hurry up and bring him a vehicle. The MP, still caught off-guard by the whole situation, rushed off to do just that. Soon enough, an army jeep rolled up before them, the MP jumping out of the driver’s seat to allow Yamcha to take control. Yamcha made a show of shoving Ivan into the passenger seat, and Ivan was a good enough actor to look like he was resisting the entire time. Only when he had his “prisoner” secured did he turn to the MP and give him a nod of thanks.

 “You have my appreciation. I will be sure to inform Comrade Stalin of your assistance in this matter upon my return to the capitol,” he said, using language he remembered reading in that old propaganda piece back at Dr. Briefs’ lab. It seemed to do the trick, as the MP seemed quite glad to salute him on his way as Yamcha took the wheel and rumbled down the dirt track out of the army hospital camp. As soon as the camp faded from view behind them, he let out a giddy laugh, unable to believe they’d just gotten away with the shit they’d just pulled. Ivan, for his part, couldn’t help but laugh lightly along with him, despite his clear reservations and lingering pain. He supposed he must simply be glad to taste freedom for the first time in over a year of captivity.

 

* * *

 

 

 The two of them headed as far east as they could after escaping Poland, making a beeline towards Russia proper. Mr. Popo, to his credit, had been correct in assuring that the documents Yamcha held would get them where they needed to go. So long as Ivan acted the part of the weary, unwilling prisoner, the contents of the envelope Yamcha held was enough to whisk them effortlessly through any Russian military checkpoint they came across – which, east of Berlin, was pretty much all of them at this point in the conflict. It was clear to the both of them that the war was winding down. The news of Adolf Hitler’s death was quick to spread, and no general was willing to continue hostilities now that the chain of command had all but dissolved on the German side of the conflict. It was over now, and the Soviet Union had swooped in to claim their own chunk of Europe in the aftermath. This was a good thing, as far as their immediate goals were concerned. It was Soviet checkpoints as far as the eye could see, and he was lucky enough to have Soviet documents to see them through each and every one.

 Even so, they could not make it from Poland to Ivan’s home in a day, even though they drove all day and partially through the night. The two of them had to make camp on the Russian border of the Ukraine, well within the Soviet states yet far from their ultimate destination. They made camp in a frozen wood, the two of them sitting with their backs against their stolen jeep as they watched the flames of the fire before them dance in the night, casting flickering shadows that were equally mesmerizing as they were panic-inducing. It was during such a lull in their flight that they finally found a moment to relax slightly, a semblance of a conversation sprouting between the two of them.

 “You…” began Ivan hesitantly, “You are the only adult human that I’ve ever met since leaving my home that has accepted my existence without question. I’d hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I can’t help but ask… _Why?_ You clearly know what I am, yet I do not feel fear from you. Instead, I feel the same sentiment from you as I’ve felt from my own mother and sister – an unconditional love that I have yet to be able to comprehend. It is… _baffling_ , to say the least.”

 “H-hey, you’re not reading my mind, are you?” Yamcha asked in a slight panic. If Ivan read his mind and saw some of the events of the far future, there was no telling what would happen. Luckily, Ivan shook his head, though he seemed amazed that he knew of his telepathic abilities.

 “I don’t make a habit of prying where I am not invited. I got the sense of it when you gave me some of your energy before. I could feel your emotions in that moment, which is probably the only reason I decided to trust you at all.”

 “I see…” Yamcha replied, letting out a sigh of relief. “Well, you’re free now. We’ll have you home by midday tomorrow, then you can go back to your research and music and everything else.”

 “You’ve not answered my question,” he interrupted. “Why do you feel love for me, someone you’ve never even met before?”

 Yamcha looked over to meet Ivan’s dark eyes, their intense gaze fixed on him and refusing to let go until he had his answer. Yamcha couldn’t help but stare for a long while. He’d removed his bandages once they’d made camp, exposing his still-regenerating flesh. It had mostly healed, but there were still great sections that looked like scars that had years to heal rather than hours, the light from the fire deepening the shadows in his face and making him look like an alien Freddy Krueger. It was certainly one of the more intimidating, if not outright frightening sights he’d ever seen, but he tried not to let it sway him. He gave the other man a soft smile.

 “Sorry. Spoilers.”

 

* * *

 

 

 The two of them only got a few hours of sleep before hitting the road once more before the break of dawn. The trip was uneventful for the most part, aside from the occasional military checkpoint they had to cross through. These were growing fewer and fewer the further into Russia they went, and soon they found themselves in the wide-open countryside. Once the chances of being seen were all but gone, Ivan removed his bandages again, which served more as a disguise now than to keep his wounds covered.

 “We’re very close now. I’m starting to recognize this area,” Ivan commented before turning to face Yamcha, who was still driving. “How do I look? The burns, they don’t hurt anymore, but they haven’t healed completely yet, have they?”

 Yamcha glanced over for a moment to take a look. He certainly looked a lot better than he had last night, but whether that was due to the change in lighting or further healing, Yamcha couldn’t tell. Much of his skin had returned to its normal green state, but there were patches of raw purple here and there where he was still healing. He gave the taller man a lopsided smirk.

 “What, you expecting to go join a beauty pageant after this? You look fine. Nothing another day or two won’t clear up.”

 Ivan let out a small sigh of relief at that, settling back into his seat once more.

 “Good, just as long as I’m recognizable. Of course, mother would worry over me if I showed up with so much as a paper cut, so I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it anyway.”

 Yamcha let out a small chuckle at that, but something caught his eye up ahead that made his witty retort catch in his throat. Above the rolling white hills and against a sky of dismal grey rose a tower of black smoke in the distance. In an instant, he felt all the warmth drain from his body, his eyes widening. No… It couldn’t be…

 “What is it? What’s wrong?” Ivan asked in concern as the jeep accelerated sharply. He didn’t need an answer, however, as he soon noticed the smoke in the distance. He said nothing more, but Yamcha could practically feel the dread welling up in the man’s body as though he, too, knew what was happening.

 As they crested the hill, Yamcha came to a sudden stop. The sight that greeted them was as stunning as it was horrifying. A huge mansion engulfed in flames, ashes raining from the sky, the heat of the blaze able to be felt even from that great distance. Soon, however, something else caught his attention. There were three people standing before the burning estate; two men clad in dark suits not unlike the one Yamcha was currently wearing, a woman in a calf-length blue dress between the two of them. The woman struggled against the grasp of one of the men, shouting loudly but just far enough away that he couldn’t understand her. The other man, standing before her, was shouting as well in a commanding fashion, but his words were also drowned out by distance and the roar of the blaze. This second man, clearly growing frustrated with her lack of cooperation, reached under his coat and retrieved something, holding it against the woman’s head and prompting more shouting and sobbing from her. After a moment, Yamcha realized it was a gun.

 “ _No!_ ” Ivan shouted, vaulting over the front of the jeep and taking off at full sprint towards the scene below. Yamcha was slower to react, but soon did the same, taking off down the hill as fast as he could, but still somehow trailing behind Ivan. Even though the two of them ran faster than any human alive was capable of, they couldn’t make it in time. The crack of gunfire pierced the air, and the woman fell limp in her captor’s arms.


	11. Nothing Left

 Yamcha came to a sudden stop, standing in stunned silence as the scene before him seemed to play in slow motion. The poor woman’s body drifted down to the snow below, a streak of crimson running down the side of her face from the bullet hole in her temple, a terrified expression frozen on her lifeless features. The two men turned, now facing the two intruders that were making their way down the hill and turning their guns on them.

 Yamcha glanced over to Ivan. He, too, was staring down at the scene below with a look of paralyzed horror. Soon enough, his countenance was overcome with pure rage, and he took off again down the hill at a speed that surprised even the warrior from the future. Before he could stop him, Ivan had sprinted down and closed the distance between himself and the two men below, a tortured scream of anger and pain tearing from his throat. The infuriated alien was before the woman’s murderer before he could blink, and soon enough the unsuspecting man found himself with his back pressed against the snow. Ivan raised a fist, and though Yamcha shouted out to try to stop him, the blow connected with devastating effect. Where once the man’s head lay, now there was only a large splatter of crimson against the pure white snow.

 The second man staggered backwards a few steps, as though he was considering running and couldn’t find his footing, but he soon found himself affixed in the gaze of what seemed to be a crazed demon. Ivan pounced once more, tackling the other man to the ground, his hands affixed firmly around his second victim’s neck. Yamcha could hear the man’s desperate gasps for air for about a minute, his hands clawing at the immovable fingers wrapped around his throat before he finally went limp. The traveler from the future could do nothing but stand there and stare, too stunned to even think about intervening anymore.

 Ivan removed his hands from the dead man’s neck, staring down at the corpse as though surprised at what he’d just done. He stared down at his hands, at the blood splattered across his knuckles from the first man he’d killed. Despite having been on the front lines of war, he’d clearly never taken a life before. He was a medic. A healer. A pacifist. To have killed, even in the throes of anger… It was more than the poor man could take.

 Ivan’s attention shifted from the corpses of the two men to that of the woman they’d executed mere moments ago. She lay in the snow, almost appearing to be in a gentle sleep if it wasn’t for the blood streaking down the side of her face. Ivan seemed to completely forget about the men in an instant, scrambling frantically over to her side. His hands shook and hesitated, but he eventually reached down to gingerly cradle her head with the utmost care. Despite his soft, whispered pleas, however, she would not wake.

 Yamcha took a hesitant step forward, not wanting to intrude, but at the same time too curious to stand back any longer. He approached just close enough to see the dead woman’s face. She seemed to have been in her middle ages, just the slightest wrinkles around the corners of her mouth and eyes showing her age. Her raven hair was still affixed into elegant victory rolls atop her head, the remaining length draping down to her shoulders. A lump gathered in his throat as he found that he recognized her from the wedding photograph in the old newspaper Dr. Briefs had recovered for him. She’d been the only other female aside from the bride herself in the picture. Her name had been Natalya Scherbakova. She’d been the one to rescue Ivan from the frozen mountains, the one that had given him a home and a loving family. She was his beloved mother.

 “Piccolo, I… I’m so sorry…” Yamcha offered hesitantly, unsure of what he could possibly say in such a situation but sure that he had to say _something_. He didn’t even notice that he’d called him by the wrong name. But what else could he do? Here was a man who’d spent well over a year in a war he wanted no part in, captured and tortured by an enemy that could see him as nothing more than a curiosity at best, and a potential weapon at worst. Yet, even after escaping all that, to come back home to find everything he’d ever known and loved reduced to ash, and his own mother executed before his eyes… Honestly, it was a bloody miracle he was holding it together as much as he was. Or, at least, it _appeared_ he was holding it together…

 Ivan turned from his mother’s body rather suddenly, shifting to dig around in the snow nearby. After a moment, he retrieved something that had been buried there, bringing it up to rest against his temple. It was the pistol one of the assailants had used to murder Natalya just a moment ago.

 “W-wait, no!!” Yamcha shrieked, diving forward as quickly as he could, grabbing hold of Ivan’s arm to yank it away from his head. There was a thunderous crack just next to his ear, and for a moment he was afraid he was too late. Eventually, he willed himself to look up. Ivan stood there – thankfully still alive – his arm having been pulled away just in time for the bullet to just barely graze the top of his head. A thin streak of purple blood now streamed down the side of his face, running parallel to the tears that flowed freely down in cheeks. His whole body seemed to be trembling, his eyes searching emptily forward as though wondering why the scene before him had not gone away in an instant.

 Suddenly, Ivan’s attention shifted to Yamcha, his fierce eyes fixed on him with the same sort of rage they held when he’d attacked his mother’s killers. The Namekian shoved him from where he clung to his arm, sending him tumbling down into the snow. Yamcha was too caught off guard to react, landing flat on his ass at Ivan’s feet. When he looked up once more, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

 “ _Why?!_ ” Ivan barked out before Yamcha could so much as raise his hands above his head. “Why the fuck won’t you let me die?! Can’t you see?! There’s nothing left for me here! _Nothing!_ You damn bastards have taken _everything_ from me! What does it matter to you if I live or die?! Why the fuck do you care?!”

 “Because that’s what you do when you love someone!!”

 Once again, Yamcha’s mouth spoke before his brain had a chance to stop it. Even so, that seemed to do the trick. Ivan, stunned by the outburst, lowered his weapon, staring down at the other man incredulously.

 “Wh… What..?” he breathed out, looking utterly baffled by what he’d just heard. Yamcha took the opportunity to leap up and grab the gun from his hand, tossing it well out of reach.

 “You heard me, dammit! Even if you’ve given up, I’m not about to sit here and give up on you! You’re stronger than this! I _know_ you are! The Piccolo I know would never quit fighting, no matter how tough things got! I know things seem hopeless right now, and I’m not even going to pretend to know how you’re feeling right now, but you’ve got to trust me when I tell you that things won’t always be like this. It gets better. It’ll never go back to the way it was, but it _will_ get better. I _know_ it will.”

 Ivan stared down at him for a good long moment, slowly absorbing all he’d just been told. His eyes then shifted over to his childhood home, still engulfed in flames, and his mother’s body lying in the snow. Then, as everything seemed to sink in once more, he dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands in a vain attempt to keep his tears at bay. Yamcha knelt down at his side, pulling the grieving alien into his arms in some instinctual attempt to comfort him. Ivan hadn’t the energy to fight it any longer, and he wept openly against the other man’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

 The ashes of the mansion were still faintly glowing even after Ivan and Yamcha had finished their business on the property. They’d managed to find a few entrenchment tools in the jeep they’d stolen, and the two of them had spent the next several hours digging a large hole as close to the smoldering ruins of the house as they could stand to be. Once it was complete, they gently lowered Natalya’s body down to the bottom. They stood at the edge of the grave for a long while, Ivan staring down into it as though unwilling to stain his mother’s body with the dirt he knew he must cover her with. Yamcha waited patiently, letting him take it in his own time.

 Yamcha wasn’t sure what to say in this case anyway. Piccolo had already told him that he’d grown up without religion, so any prayer would be meaningless to him. In the end, a respectful silence was all either could muster before they finally filled in the grave.

 “So…” Yamcha began hesitantly once they were done, “What about your sister? She wasn’t inside, was she?”

 Ivan shook his head slightly, still staring down at his mother’s grave.

 “No. She lives with her husband in Izhevsk.”

 “I… Don’t know where that is… Is it safe there?”

 “From the war? Yes. I don’t think the Germans made it that far. There are other dangers, though.”

 “Oh? Like what?”

 Ivan’s answer was a brief gesture over to the bodies of the two government agents he’d killed earlier. They wouldn’t be bothering with graves for them.

 “I heard what they were asking her. They were here looking for me. All of this… It was all because of me…” He paused for a brief moment, having to fight to keep his composure. Yamcha could tell he’d reached his limit for how much weakness he was willing to show. “If they came all the way out here to interrogate my mother, then they’re not above going after Tatyana as well.”

 “So, what’s the plan? Are we going to try to beat them to her?”

 “No. Chasing the snake’s tail will do nothing but waste time and let them know we’re on to them. I’d prefer to cut off the head while we still have the element of surprise.”

 Yamcha had to admit to being somewhat impressed. Ivan was no warrior – not yet, anyway – yet he was already starting to think like a tactician. Perhaps he simply had a natural talent for it.

 “Alright, where do we find the snake’s head, then?”

 “That should go without saying,” Ivan began, finally turning away from the fresh grave to start hiking back up to their jeep. “Moscow.”

 

* * *

 

 

 The drive to Moscow was not nearly so long as the one they’d taken from Poland, but it still took them several hours of travel through rough terrain. It was all well enough. The trip gave Ivan enough time to recover more energy, allowing him to complete his regeneration and even to materialize his human disguise over his body. It felt a bit strange sitting next to the blond giant in such a serious setting, especially considering that the last time he’d appeared like this to him was during the baseball game. Gone was the serene smile he’d come to expect from that face, replaced instead by a grim look of resolute purpose.

 The drive was easier once they reached the city proper. The outskirts still held the scars of battle, but no enemy seemed able to breech the capitol’s defenses. Even so, there were plenty of soldiers patrolling the streets, though they did seem more relaxed now that the war was over. Soon enough, the iconic spires of St. Basil’s Cathedral faded in from the snowy distance, marking the outer edge of where the heart of the Soviet government resided.

 The Kremlin itself was a veritable fortress, surrounded on all sides by high walls of red brick. Security here was at its strongest, yet miraculously the papers Mr. Popo had given him got them through even this. Once inside the complex, Yamcha couldn’t help but start to feel a little nervous.

 “O-okay, now what? These buildings are huge. Who are we even looking for? And how are we going to find him?”

 “Don’t worry, I’ll find him,” Ivan replied calmly, doing a far better job of looking like he was supposed to be there than Yamcha was. “I met him once. He was noteworthy enough for me to break my rule about prying into people’s minds where I’m not invited. I got a feel for his thoughts. Once we get close enough, I’ll be able to track him.”

 “C’mon, don’t play the pronoun game with me. Who’s ‘he?’”

 Ivan didn’t answer right away, as though even saying the name out loud would alert his target to their pursuit.

 “Doesn’t matter. He’s either the one giving the orders, or his death will cause a large enough distraction that they won’t have time to think about going after my sister. Either way, it will serve its purpose.”

 Yamcha furrowed his brow, a little frustrated that Ivan continued to play coy with his answers. Then, all the pieces slowly started to fall into place, and once he was able to see the big picture in his mind he felt his blood turn to ice.

 “A-are we about to assassinate Stalin?!!” he blurted out, barely having the presence of mind to keep his voice down. Ivan merely let out a sigh, though he stopped just short of rolling his eyes.

 “How I ever thought you were a real NKGB agent is beyond me. You lack any sort of subtlety.”

 

* * *

 

 

 Soon enough, Ivan managed to pick up on the thought pattern of their target and directed Yamcha to park outside what had to be the largest building in the entire complex. Going through the entrance was out of the question. It was heavily guarded and a simple pat down would reveal the pistol Ivan still carried to do the job. Instead, the two of them waited for a moment when no patrols could see them and lept up to the second-floor balcony. Once there, they pried open a window and slipped in.

 Once they were inside, Yamcha couldn’t help but stare in utter awe. Never had he seen such over-the-top opulence! The floor was polished marble cut into intricate designs, and the very walls themselves were trimmed in gold. Huge chandeliers lined the ceiling, providing the main source of light for the grand hall.

 “Holy shit… This place would make even Vegeta jealous…” Yamcha mumbled to himself. He wasn’t left to ogle for much longer, though. He snapped back to reality when Ivan nudged his shoulder, motioning for him to follow quietly. He nodded, doing just that as they made their way down impossibly huge halls. Soon enough, they stopped outside a pair of massive gold doors, one of which was cracked open just wide enough to peek through. Inside was a sizeable group of men – all of which looked to be some sort of military or government official – sitting around a long table. Occasionally passing into view as he paced around the backs of his men was a man who was instantly recognizable if only for his moustache.

 Upon spotting his target, Ivan pulled his gun from where he’d stashed it in his waistband, but he did not strike. Not yet. He watched silently, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The instant Stalin passed by the door, he lept into action. He shoved the door aside with his shoulder, bursting into the room and taking aim at the dictator’s head before anyone knew what was going on. Before the generals had time to react, he pulled the trigger. What followed was not the thunderous crack of gunfire as expected, but an impotent click. Ivan’s eyes widened, his body freezing as he realized what went wrong. The gun had jammed. He never got the chance to come up with a back-up plan. In an instant, the generals were on their feet, each unholstering their own sidearms and aiming them squarely at the sudden intruder.

 “No!!” Yamcha shouted, bursting into the room and diving to tackle Ivan out of the way before he could be shot. He lept, but somehow he never made contact with his target. After a long, confusing moment, he realized why. Time seemed to have stopped dead all around him. Stalin was frozen in a half-dive to the ground, the bullets of his generals suspended in mid-air above the table. Yamcha himself couldn’t move, though it wasn’t for a lack of trying. Though he could somehow perceive everything that was happening around him, he couldn’t move a muscle. What the hell was going on?

  _‘Well then, we have quite the interloper here, don’t we?’_

 The voice that spoke out in the utter stillness sent shivers up Yamcha’s spine. It was soft, the gender indistinguishable, but it sounded more like an echo in his own head than that of a spoken voice. He strained his eyes to try to move them so he could look around, but it was no use. Soon enough, though, the source made itself known.

 A tall, almost impossibly thin figure more glided than walked around from behind him, its white robe clinging closely to its slender form. Yamcha just barely managed to make out a familiar symbol in red emblazoned across the figure’s chest. It was the kanji for “God.” His eyes would have widened if only he could move. This was the Guardian of Earth, the one before Kami.

 The Guardian reached out a long, slender hand, taking Yamcha’s chin in its gentle grasp and turning his head up to look at him. The former bandit found himself staring up at a creature that had to be as tall as Piccolo himself, though its bulbous head, large almond-shaped eyes, and ash grey skin made it look like the typical “little grey alien” from popular UFO stories.

 When it spoke again, its tiny slit of a mouth never moved, further reinforcing his theory that it was using telepathic communication.

_‘You’ve served your purpose here quite well, Mr. Rekishiyoma. I thank you for doing your part to preserve this most interesting subject. However, I’m afraid any further interference from you would be a detriment to my plans.’_

 The Guardian reached into the inside of Yamcha’s coat as it spoke, gingerly retrieving the manila envelope he had stashed there. Its attention then seemed to shift to somewhere behind him.

  _‘Mr. Popo, I’d like you to keep these in the Pendulum Room chest to keep them from being affected by the passage of time. Also take careful note of what this one is wearing. Have Garlic retrieve a replica to be placed in the chest along with them. We do want to be prepared in the future, now don’t we?’_

 As the Guardian handed off the papers, Yamcha heard a familiar voice behind him reply with, “Yes, Lord Mal’kesh.”

 The Guardian – apparently called Mal’kesh – turned back to Yamcha once more. It reached out and, with the slightest of touches, closed his eyes, and the world disappeared.


	12. Future

 When Yamcha could see again, he found that the lavish surroundings of the Presidential Palace had melted away, replaced by the endless dark of the Pendulum Room. Even though it was quite clear that he was back to his own present time, he couldn’t help but look around frantically. Where was Ivan? Was he okay? Was it too much to hope that the previous Guardian, the grey alien known as Mal’kesh, had chosen that moment to take the tortured Namekian on as his student?

 After his eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the chamber, Yamcha spotted Mr. Popo standing off to the side of the active area. Yamcha scrambled over to him, grabbing the genie desperately by the vest.

 “No, you’ve gotta send me back! They’re gonna kill him!” he pleaded frantically, shaking the celestial groundskeeper lightly as though trying to shake some sense into him. Mr. Popo, though he looked a bit startled by the action, merely shook his head.

 “I-I’m sorry, I cannot do that. Lord Mal’kesh made me swear to adhere to what I have already seen. You were only allowed to travel back to that time because history had already dictated that you do so. You aren’t permitted past the point that you were sent back here because you simply weren’t there. You cannot change the past, no matter how much you may wish to…”

 Yamcha could do little more than stare into Mr. Popo’s unblinking gaze at that. Was this what he meant when he said that he’d been involved in this for longer than he realized? He knew then, didn’t he? He knew that Yamcha would fall in love with Piccolo. He’d known for centuries, in fact. More than that, he knew literally everything that had happened to Piccolo and Kami during those years he couldn’t remember. At this point, there could be no doubt that he, along with the previous Guardian, had been watching the stranded Namekian closely. If that was the case, then he held all the answers, didn’t he? The key to unlocking Piccolo’s entire past was right there in front of him.

 “F-fine… If you won’t send me back, the least you could do is tell me… What happened to him after I left?”

 Unfortunately, Mr. Popo seemed to have reached the limit of what he would – or could – say. He opted to reply with utter, deafening silence. Consumed with frustration at the lack of answers, Yamcha released the genie and sprinted out of the Pendulum Room. He weaved his way through Kami’s Palace until he made his way into the blinding sunlight of the open sky. He hadn’t the time to explain to Dende what was going on, a new urgency driving the former bandit to fly as fast as he could back to the Scherbakov mansion. He had to be sure Piccolo was okay. He had to be sure he was still alive.

 

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha made it back to the Northern District in record time, rocketing above towns and past aircraft with complete disregard for the risk of being noticed. He didn’t care what anyone thought upon seeing a man flying through the air. Dammit, he didn’t care! The only thing that mattered was Piccolo.

 Finally, after what felt like eons, the familiar silhouette of the old rebuilt mansion came into view. He let out a small sigh of relief. Well, at least that was still there. That meant that the one who’d rebuilt it must still exist. Even so, he searched desperately for Piccolo’s ki. He was able to find it easily enough, but was somewhat confused to find that the Namekian warrior was not inside.

 As he descended, he spotted a dark figure standing out in the snowy field. Yamcha touched down a few yards behind, suddenly unsure if he should approach just yet. Piccolo was just standing there, his hands in his pockets as he stared down at the ground. It didn’t take long for Yamcha to realize the significance of the spot. That had been where they’d buried his mother. The event was still fresh in his mind, having experienced it in what for him was just half a day ago. Yet, for Piccolo, that same event occurred around eight hundred and fifty years ago.

 “Welcome back to the future, I suppose.”

 Yamcha was a little startled when Piccolo addressed him out of nowhere like that. Then again, he knew by now that it was impossible to sneak up on him. Even if he couldn’t sense his ki, he could hear for endless miles. No, the real surprise was that he seemed to know exactly where he’d been all day. Yamcha let out a small sigh, taking it as an invitation and making his way over to Piccolo’s side.

 He glanced down at the grave and was mildly surprised to find a small patch of snow cleared away, a stone plaque now embedded into the frozen ground. He wasn’t sure if that was there before or if Piccolo had only just remembered enough to come back and mark the grave. The plaque was inscribed in Russian, and though he couldn’t read it outside of the Pendulum Room, he was fairly certain he knew what it said.

 “I… I’m sorry…” Yamcha mumbled out softly, never raising his eyes from the grave of the woman he’d helped to bury centuries ago. “I tried – _we_ tried – but we just couldn’t make it in time to save her…”

 “I know…” Piccolo replied somberly, never looking up himself. “Thank you.”

 That last bit caught Yamcha off guard, and he couldn’t help but glance up at Piccolo, as though unsure he’d heard correctly. The stoic alien’s face was as unreadable as ever. He then averted his gaze down to the ground once more, unable to look him in the eye for long.

 “For what? I failed… I couldn’t save you, I couldn’t save your mother…Who knows what ever happened to your sister…”

 “You’re wrong,” Piccolo replied after a moment of thought. “You _did_ save me. You saved me from myself. If it wasn’t for you, I’d have been dead a long time ago.”

 Yamcha had to think for a moment to deduce what he meant, but soon he’d remembered. He must have been talking about when he’d stopped him from shooting himself in the head. He couldn’t help but think of all the things that would be different if he’d been just a fraction of a second slower in that moment. The dragon balls would never have existed on Earth, and likely none of them would have ever met. He wondered if Goku would have gotten strong enough to resist Raditz if he’d never met Bulma and left his mountain home. Would Krillin have been the only one of them to train under Master Roshi? Would the Red Ribbon Army have ever been destroyed? Would Yamcha himself still be a lonely, dirt-poor bandit living in the desert?

 He couldn’t help but draw in a sharp gasp when he felt Piccolo gently grasp his hand out of nowhere, pulling him out of his silent musings.

 “You’ve… you’ve seen a lot today. More than I’d ever show anyone else. You’ve seen me at my lowest, at my most desperate moments. Yet, even when things became difficult, your first instinct was to spring to my aide, your own safety be damned. I… I’ve never known such dedication in my life. I would understand completely if you were unwilling to involve yourself with me in the future, if you were unable to deal with such a broken individual such as I, but… I just want you to know that it is more than I deserve to have spent these past few months like this with you, and it would be a true honor to remain by your side from here on out…”

 Yamcha felt his face heat up in an instant. Was… Was this Piccolo’s overly-elaborate way of _proposing?!_ No… Perhaps he was overthinking it. Either way, though… he was certainly indicating that he wished their relationship to continue, and even to grow stronger. Yamcha’s lips curved instinctually into a smile, and he found himself threading his fingers together with Piccolo’s own.

 “The honor is mine,” was all Yamcha could think to respond with. He could feel Piccolo’s surprise at such a response, even though he never had the courage to look up at him just yet. Then, after a moment, he felt the other man’s hand squeeze his own gently, fully embracing the contact. In that moment, he felt a flow of ki in his body which originated from their clasped hands. It was Piccolo’s familiar ki, but it felt different somehow. Not unfamiliar, just different. It took him a moment to realize that it was starting to feel a bit more like Ivan’s ki from in the past. Yet, at the same time, it was a bit more like the two were combining, feeding off one another, amplifying one another, growing stronger... Yamcha’s brow furrowed. Could it be that the previous Guardian hadn’t only sealed away his old memories, but some forgotten power as well?

 “Hey…” Yamcha spoke up after a long moment of silence. “I’d understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but I just have to know… What happened to you after I left you back then? Your old master said I couldn’t interfere beyond that point, and he sent me back. I know you must have survived, because here you are, but… Please, tell me what you remember.”

 Piccolo’s grip on his hand seemed to waver, a sense of hesitation coming over his energy. Soon enough, however, his second thoughts seemed to fade. He turned himself over to his newfound trust in this hapless human, squeezing his hand lovingly once more. Yamcha got the sense that what he was about to hear was privileged information; that Piccolo would never dare discuss such things with anyone but him.

 “Stalin’s generals… They overwhelmed me. My weapon had jammed, and they were on me en masse. I remember feeling more than half a dozen bullets penetrating my body in that next moment. It wasn’t enough to kill me, and they’d thankfully missed my head, but… They managed to subdue me quite easily after that.

 “I’m afraid what came next was…” Piccolo came to an abrupt stop after that. Yamcha could feel the hesitation in him; what’s more, the fear. He didn’t want to remember that, it seemed. The former bandit squeezed his hand back in reassurance.

 “It’s okay. They’re gone now. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

 That seemed to do the trick. Piccolo drew in a sharp breath, releasing it in a sigh. He could be brave and forge on, if only with Yamcha’s help.

 “I next awoke on an operating table, in a surgical theatre with hundreds of eyes staring down at me… _into_ me. They’d bolted my bones to the table to keep me from breaking free. My wrists, my ankles, my shoulders... I couldn’t move, not with what little energy I had left being dedicated to keeping me alive. I remember waking up with the sudden horrified realization that I’d been cut into, that I was split open… I looked down to find that my chest had been peeled away, layer by layer; that my ribcage lay open for the world to see what lay within.

 “I was then forced to watch as they cut the heart from my chest, watching me with eager anticipation as I lay there, gasping desperately for air, trying to force my blood to circulate by sheer willower alone. I started to feel utterly numb as the darkness closed in, the only thing I could feel being pure panic. Then, just before consciousness left me, my heart regenerated. The darkness receded, my starved veins finally receiving the blood they screamed for.

 “Yet, even as I lay there, crying out in agony, I could hear the doctors cheer victoriously. They had their answers… And I had confirmation of what I’d always feared, of what mother had always warned me of; they really were no different than the Nazis I’d fought against. The saddest part of it all was that it hadn’t been the first time I’d experienced such torture. That had been one of Mengele’s favorite punishments if ever I got too snarky with him. I can’t even count how many hearts I’ve had in my lifetime, I’ve had to regenerate so many…

 “I think that’s why I remained with the other Namekians when they stayed at Capsule Corp. Even before I remembered everything, that instinctual distrust of anyone in a medical or scientific field persisted. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t stay out of a sense of kinship for those of my own kind, but out of fear that Dr. Briefs or one of his employees would exploit one of them in the same way I had been exploited all those years ago…”

 Yamcha found himself at a complete loss for words by the end of the story. He’d heard that the medical torture they’d inflicted upon people during that war had been truly horrific, but he hadn’t known the magnitude of it until just then. What’s more, it probably wasn’t even half of the full story. Just how much of this had Piccolo had to endure in his lifetime? Honestly, at this point it was no wonder he came to hate humans so much. Had it happened to him, Yamcha probably would have veered off into Great Demon King territory far sooner than the gentle giant that was Ivan.

 “It’s okay,” Yamcha replied finally. “We don’t have to think about the past anymore if you don’t want to. From now on, why don’t we focus on the future instead? We’ll make new memories for you – memories you won’t want to forget, memories that make you happy. What do you say?”

 There was a long moment of silence after that, at which point Yamcha briefly feared that he may have stepped over a line somehow. Piccolo had spent nearly a year painstakingly trying to recover these memories. Now that many of them turned out to be painful ones, was it disrespectful to imply that he should forget about them?

 Finally, Piccolo let out a small chuckle, and he could feel him smiling serenely.

 “Yes, I think I’d like that.”


	13. Dating Start!

  Yamcha let out a frustrated groan as his pleasant sleep was interrupted by the blaring of his phone’s ringtone. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, stubbornly determined not to answer it and go right back to sleep. There was no one he could think of that he desperately needed to take a call from right now. Whatever it was, it could go to voicemail and wait for later.

 Hardly a moment after his phone sank into merciful silence, however, it started right back up again. With a growl of reluctance, he reached over to the bedside dresser, fishing blindly for the damnable device. Once he found the thing, he peeked at the screen with one eye, quickly looking over the caller ID. His brow furrowed instantly.

 “It’s Bulma… What the hell does she want this early in the morning?”

 “It’s really not that early, but… Do you really care enough to answer right now?” came Piccolo’s groggy voice from just behind his head. Yamcha tended to agree with the sentiment, merely turning his phone to vibrate and tossing it back onto the dresser. He then snuggled into the warmth resting along the length of his back, smiling lightly as an arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him close, Piccolo’s breath warming his shoulder as he nuzzled his face against the back of the former bandit’s neck.

 Yamcha was perfectly content to remain just like that for the next few hours, but it seemed Bulma had other plans. After the phone buzzed across the dresser for five solid minutes, he let out another growl and reluctantly left his lover’s embrace to sit up.

 “She’s persistent today, isn’t she?” Piccolo commented, more curious to know what was going on than annoyed that he’d been woken up like that. The Namekian didn’t sit up just yet, giving Puar a chance to sleepily slink her way from her perch on his hip to curl up in his lap. He rubbed her gently behind the ears, earning him a happy purr as he watched his boyfriend fuss over his phone. Yamcha eventually let out a sigh of defeat.

 “I’d better answer it… If this goes on much longer, she’ll triangulate the location of my damn phone and find her way up here.”

 “Yeah, I’m not exactly what you’d call ‘tech savvy,’ but I’m pretty sure that’s not how phones work.”

 “Oh, trust me, she’ll find a way to make it work…” he grumbled out before finally biting the bullet and answering the call. “Hello?”

 “ _WHO IS SHE?!!!_ ”

 Yamcha let out a startled yelp, holding his phone out at arm’s length to keep that banshee shriek from blowing out his eardrum. Piccolo didn’t even need his superior hearing to overhear that, instantly bursting into a laughing fit that he quickly tried to stifle with his hand. That reaction alone brought an amused smile to Yamcha’s face, though he resisted the urge to laugh as well. Instead, he brought his phone just close enough to his head that it would pick up on his voice.

 “Uhh… Who?”

 “Oh, don’t you play dumb with me! I know all about your little escapades! I found the files you had my dad look up for you! A little family research project for a ‘friend,’ huh?! Yeah, right! The only kind of friend you’d bend over backwards like that for is some bimbo you’re trying to impress!”

 “I dunno, he bends over just fine for me,” Piccolo snarked under his breath between badly suppressed snickers. Yamcha shoved the Namekian’s shoulder lightly with his free hand, whispering a quick “sh-shut up!” before having to bite his lip to keep from laughing himself. Luckily their exchange hadn’t been loud enough for the phone to pick up on it, and Bulma continued on her rant.

 “Dad also told me about that date you were bragging about on New Year’s Eve! And when I went to your apartment, they said you’d moved out! What, it only takes you three months of tail to go move in with some… some… some Russian hussy?!”

 That last bit was more than either of them could handle with a straight face. Piccolo could no longer stifle himself, falling back into his pillow and laughing aloud. Yamcha was too busy covering his own mouth to keep his own laughter from escaping to try and quiet his partner. It would have been too late anyway. This time, they couldn’t keep Bulma from overhearing.

 “Shut up, Piccolo! This has nothing to do with you!” she shouted out over the phone, to which he could only laugh harder. She then let out a growl of frustration before seemingly coming to a conclusion. “Oh my God, you’re in on this, aren’t you?! You’ve known about this little whore the whole time and didn’t tell me about it!”

 “I mean, I guess I’d be lying if I said ‘no,’” Piccolo managed to gasp out between giggling fits. Finally, Yamcha managed to compose himself enough to step in.

 “Why would he need to tell you who I’m seeing anyway? I mean, you _did_ dump me almost two years ago.”

 Bulma’s reply seemed to catch in her throat at that, and she spent the next few moments blurting out partial sentences and cutting them off abruptly. Yamcha’s smile seemed to fade a bit at that. Well, this was a bit surreal. Before now, it had always been _he_ who had to deal with unresolved feelings about their failed relationship. Now that the tables seemed to have turned… He wasn’t sure he liked it. Finally, Bulma seemed to have found her fire again, saving him from having to discuss the awkwardness.

 “Alright, you know what? You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m sure we’ll all get the answers we want when you bring her to our cherry blossom viewing party. You _do_ remember that’s today, right?”

 “O-of course I remember!” he retorted, though it was fairly obvious to everyone involved that he’d completely forgotten.

 “Good! I’ll see you two there, then!” and with that, she hung up before Yamcha reply.

 He found himself staring down at his phone for a while after the call ended. After a bit, he turned to look back at Piccolo. He’d long since recovered from his bout of laughter, and was now staring back at him with a look of mild concern.

 “You alright?”

 Yamcha blushed lightly at that. It was impossible to hide anything from the ever-perceptive alien warrior. He’d always been able to read him like a book. He must have picked up on his discomfort there at the end of his conversation with Bulma. The former bandit responded by flashing him a soft smile.

 “Yeah, I’m fine.” he replied before holding up his phone. “So, looks like we’ve been invited out somewhere, and I don’t think she’ll take no for an answer. You wanna go?”

 “Sure. We can make a date of it,” Piccolo responded, taking a moment to stretch now that going back to bed was out of the question. “Far be it for me to let someone get away with calling me a whore without me hitting back.”

 “Hey now, don’t go starting fights my ex. Shit like that never ends well.”

 The Namekian couldn’t help but flash a sly smirk at that.

 “Please, when have I ever been anything but a perfect gentleman?”

 

* * *

 

 

 A few hours later, the two of them found themselves walking down a path that wound its way through the large park on the outskirts of West City. The grass was covered in a blanket of light pink flower petals, all fallen from the many sakura trees scattered about. There was no shortage of people in the park today, with many groups already populating choice spots beneath the trees.

 The pair made their way past the gathering families and friends, and Yamcha tried his best to ignore the stares they got as they passed. He wasn’t sure how Piccolo could stand it; always being gawked at like that. Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps it was just another thing he’d learned to keep buried deep inside. He grasped the Namekian’s hand, which seemed to flinch lightly at his touch as though he’d been startled. So, it _did_ still bother him…

 “Hey, wouldn’t be much of a date if we didn’t at least hold hands, right?” Yamcha explained, flashing his partner a goofy grin. He wasn’t ashamed to be seen with him like that, and he wanted him to know it. Piccolo stared down at him for a moment, his eyes searching Yamcha’s face as though trying to read his intentions. Whatever he decided, it brought a serene smile to his face.

 “Sure, if you’re a ten-year-old,” he teased lightly, looking away before the violet blush on his face became too obvious. Even so, he embraced Yamcha’s hand in his own without further hesitation.

 Soon enough, the two of them arrived at the portion of the park that had been reserved for use by the Briefs family. It was a beautiful area, right beneath the largest sakura tree in the park. It seemed the party had already started without them. Master Roshi was already well into the sake supply, and he could be heard shouting come-ons at any young lady that happened too close to the group. A small stage had been set up under the tree, whereupon the obligatory karaoke machine had been set up. Thankfully, no one was making use of it just yet, but Yamcha was sure that would change once more guests got some alcohol in them.

 Speaking of guests… Yamcha stopped in his tracks halfway up the hill, staring at the figure that stood at Krillin’s side. The straight blonde hair, the ice blue eyes, the petite frame… There was no mistaking the foreboding presence of Android 18. Yamcha felt his blood run cold, his entire body going rigid with fear. What the hell was _she_ doing there?! Piccolo seemed apprehensive as well, releasing Yamcha’s hand as though to be ready should he need to fight.

 Soon enough, the two of them were noticed. Krillin’s smile seemed to widen when he spotted them, eagerly waving them over. The pair was understandably hesitant, as the diminutive monk was standing right next to the murderous beauty that was 18, but they eventually made their way up the gentle slope of the hill to join the rest of the group.

 “Hey guys, how’s it going?” Krillin asked cheerily, that wide grin of his never disappearing from his face. Yamcha couldn’t hold himself back long enough to return the greeting, instead leaning down to whisper to the shorter martial artist.

 “What the hell is _she_ doing here?!” he asked urgently, trying to keep his voice low enough so that the subject in question couldn’t overhear. Krillin looked up towards Android 18, who seemed to be having a silent stare down with Piccolo at the moment. He then looked back to Yamcha with a lopsided smirk.

 “Oh, well… I invited her. She’s my date.”

 “What?!” Yamcha blurted out, completely forgetting to keep his voice down. “Y-you’re dating an _android?!_ ”

 “Hi Pot, meet Kettle,” Piccolo commented towards his partner, though his eyes never left the icy stare of 18’s bright blue eyes. Yamcha let out a nervous laugh at that. Yeah, he supposed he didn’t really have any room to talk about other people’s choices in dates, did he? Still, she’d been out to kill them all less than a year ago, and now she and Krillin were a thing all of a sudden? He’d never seen a faster heel-turn in his life!

 “Oh yeah! Speaking of which…” Krillin interjected, bringing Yamcha back to the moment at hand. “Bulma’s been going around ranting about you having a new girlfriend. So, who’s the lucky lady? You bring her along?”

 That line of questioning made Yamcha’s face heat up in an instant. He straightened up, letting out another nervous laugh as he scratched idly at the back of his head.

 “Y-yeah, about that, uhhh…” he began, unsure how to even broach the subject. He gave a sideways glance towards Piccolo, but he didn’t even get the chance to see his reaction to the question when yet another person interjected themselves into the conversation.

 “Alright, where is she?” came Bulma’s voice from just behind him. Yamcha jumped lightly in surprise, turning around to come face to face with the blue-haired scientist. She was looking up at him with that suspicious look on her face, her hands set on her hips.

 “What’s wrong? Got second thoughts about everyone meeting your new fling? Or did she dump you already?” she teased with an almost malicious smirk. Yamcha stammered through an incoherent reply, tripping over his words in his inability to form a satisfactory answer in the face of his ex. Luckily, Piccolo took notice of his struggles and stepped in.

 “Hi. I’m the ‘Russian hussy.’ Nice to meet you,” he said with the sort of straight-faced sarcasm that made you wonder whether he was joking or not. Bulma merely stared up at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter.

 “Hah! Nice try! All joking aside, though… Where is she?”

 At that reply, Piccolo bent down to get a little closer to eye-level with the obnoxious woman, staring her down with a deathly serious expression until her laughter quickly tapered out.

 “I assure you; I do not joke about such things.”

 The retort was spoken so low and calmly, yet at the same time Yamcha could see the color drain from Bulma’s face as she stared up at the alien towering over her, her eyes going wide. She opened her mouth to say something, but once she found herself incapable of finding her words, she quickly shut it again. Fortunately, it seemed Krillin was not struck with such stunned silence.

 “W-wait… You mean… _You?!_ And… A-and _Piccolo?!_ ” the shorter man stammered out in utter disbelief, his wide-eyed stares flicking between the two in question. Yamcha replied with a shaky laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck.

 “Y-yeah, it’s pretty wild, right? Trust me, I wasn’t expecting it either, but I guess that’s just how it goes sometimes!”

 Suddenly, Yamcha felt himself being tugged downward by the side of his jacket until he was bent over far enough for Krillin to whisper in his ear.

 “Hey, so… How does that work with him? I mean… you guys have, like… ‘ _done it_ ,’ right?”

 At that, Yamcha’s face went beet red with embarrassment. How the hell was he supposed to answer something like that?!

 “W-well, It’s, uhh… It’s kinda like…” he paused for a moment to clear his throat, unsure how he should explain that sort of thing in public. Luckily, he wouldn’t be left to flounder on his own for much longer.

 “Alright, first of all, I _can_ hear you. Second; why is that _always_ the first thing anyone asks about Namekians when it comes to this sort of thing? You never saw any of us asking how you humans procreate, did you?”

 At that, Krillin could only blush lightly and glance away towards his own date. Android 18, to her credit, looked more amused than anything at the situation, looking up to Piccolo with a small smirk.

 “Well, here I was afraid I’d be the strangest date anyone brought along, but this definitely tops me. Thanks for taking all the awkward staring away from me, at least.”

 “My pleasure,” Piccolo replied casually, and with that it seemed all that had happened between the two of them prior to the Cell Games was water under the bridge. It was clear that 18 meant no harm to any of them, and so long as it stayed that way Piccolo was content with her presence there.

 In the meantime, Yamcha made his way back over to where Bulma still stood, frozen like a statue.

 “Uhh… Bulma? You okay?” he asked softly, waving a hand in front of her face. Her eyes continued to stare straight forward in utter shock, looking right through him as though he wasn’t there at all.

 “I-it… It all makes sense now…” she squeaked out, her voice barely audible. Finally, her eyes seemed to focus on him once more. She then grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, shaking him back and forth. “How did I not see it before?! That’s why you were always afraid of women! And why you could never keep a girlfriend! Oh my God, why is my gay-dar so baaaad?!”


	14. All I Ask of You

 Yamcha sat on one of the many benches lining the busy streets of West City’s shopping district, watching with furrowed brows as the various shoppers walked by on their business. Before, he might have focused on the couples, staring at them with unrequited longing at what they had. Now, however, he hardly took notice of them at all. He stared right through the bustling crowds, ignoring all of their chattering and laughter. He no longer had any reason to be jealous of them. Besides, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

 He’d come alone, leaving both Piccolo and Puar at home. Piccolo never had the habit to badger him about where he was going, being of the opinion that Yamcha was a grown-ass man and deserved some moments of privacy, even if they were a couple. Yamcha certainly appreciated that level of trust and respect for personal space – something he supposed, upon reflection, Piccolo of all people would understand – but he had no intention of abusing it. Today, however, he was rather glad that he was allowed such freedom. It served his purposes quite nicely.

 Yamcha had spent the majority of the morning hunting through shop after shop, desperately searching for… Well, he wasn’t sure _what_ he was looking for. Alas, with Piccolo, he’d run into the same problem he’d faced when he used to date Bulma; the guy was impossible to buy a gift for.

 With the approach of summer came one event that Yamcha was completely unprepared for; Piccolo’s birthday was fast approaching. It wasn’t his real birthday, of course – Yamcha was sure of that much. The true date of the ancient Namekian warrior’s birth was likely lost to time and the reaches of space. What took its place was the date that he’d been taken in by his adopted mother. He wasn’t sure if his lover had ever celebrated the date, but he was certain he hadn’t done so for many centuries regardless. That afforded the former bandit a chance to surprise him, something he rarely got to do.

 But then, what could he possibly buy that would mean anything to Piccolo? The guy seemed to have the ability to create literally anything he wanted out of thin air, making anything he could get him superfluous. He had only two options when it came to getting a meaningful gift; he could get him something with some historical weight behind it – something that would be meaningless if it was simply replicated. Such a thing was hard to come by, especially since what constituted as ‘history’ for Piccolo that wouldn’t remind him of painful times would have to have been well over nine-hundred years old. The only other thing he could think of was something intangible – an _experience_ rather than a material gift. The former would likely be far outside his budget, even considering his substantial fortune gained from his last season of professional baseball, and the latter… Well, he had no idea where he’d even start with something like that.

 “Yamcha..?”

 Yamcha jumped slightly when he was addressed out of nowhere. He looked up, his eyes widening when he came face to face with a familiar figure. Bulma stood over him, her clear blue eyes gazing at him in genuine surprise at finding him there. The shopping bags dangling from her arm suggested that she’d come for a bit of what – for her – was a bout of light shopping. She stared down at him in mild bewilderment, unused to him frequenting such a place. Yamcha was overcome with mild embarrassment, greeting his ex with a nervous chuckle.

 “O-oh, hey, Bulma! What’re you doing here?” he asked, trying to appear as casual as possible. It didn’t seem to work.

 “I think a better question would be, what are _you_ doing here?” she questioned, cocking a thin blue eyebrow suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you be off with your boyfriend or something?”

 “Yeah, about that…” he replied with an embarrassed chuckle, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That’s actually why I’m out here alone. I’m looking for a gift for him.”

 “Oh, _really?!_ ” she asked excitedly, immediately settling herself on the bench seat next to him. “What’s the occasion? It’s way too early for any sort of anniversary, unless you two were secretly dating during that whole Cell thing.”

 “N-no, nothing like that!” he said, his cheeks growing hot despite himself. “It’s, uhh… Actually, his birthday’s coming up in about a week, so I just thought—”

 The gasp that interrupted his thoughts was so high-pitched that he was sure there were dogs for miles that would hear it.

 “It’s his _birthday?!_ ” she squealed out, staring up at him with stars sparkling in her eyes. He couldn’t help but let out a groan, already seeing the gears start to turn in her head. “Oh my gosh, when is it?! I simply _have_ to plan a par—“

 “ _No!_ ” Yamcha interrupted rather forcefully, cutting her off before she could utter that dreaded word. “H-he’s a really reserved guy, y’know? He’d absolutely _hate_ to have a big party, _especially_ one where he’s the center of attention. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep this kinda on the down-low…”

 Bulma stared up at him for a moment, at first seeming a bit offended at him for interrupting her favorite past-time of party planning. Then, as he explained his reasoning, her expression dissolved into a soft smile.

 “Y’know what? That’s actually really sweet of you. Alright, I promise there won’t be a party. I’m sure you’d prefer to celebrate in private anyway.” That last sentence was spoken a bit suggestively, complete with a teasing elbow jab to the ribs. Yamcha couldn’t help but blush even harder than that, averting his eyes to somewhere on the floor to avoid her teasing gaze.

 It was in that moment that something occurred to Yamcha. He felt different around Bulma than he had the previous year. No longer did he pine to have her back, no more was he stricken with intense jealousy anytime he thought of her being with Vegeta. He ventured to guess he could even look Trunks in the eye without flinching anymore. He didn’t need to think long on the reason for this startling change; he’d found all he’d ever needed in Piccolo.

 Bulma, for her part, seemed to regard him differently as well. No longer did she react with that same sort of jealousy when the subject of him dating someone else came about. The both of them seemed to be content with how things were between them. Finally – _finally_ – it seemed like each of them had managed to move on from one another. It felt like a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and he was sure Bulma felt that same relief. Now that he wasn’t aiming to woo her, he felt that he could now be his honest self in front of her. He felt free to just be her friend. Ironically, he’d never felt closer to her than in that very situation.

 “So, what were you thinking of getting him?”

 Yamcha was tugged from his thoughts abruptly when Bulma continued their conversation from a moment ago. He glanced down at her briefly, before looking away awkwardly and blushing once more.

 “Th-that’s sort of my problem, actually… I’ve been trying to figure out something all day, but nothing comes to mind. Anything I could buy for him wouldn’t really mean anything, since he can make anything he wants out of thin air. I don’t suppose you have any suggestions?”

 Bulma’s face twisted into a mild pout, her eyes staring off into the middle distance as she thought on it for a moment.

 “Hmmm… Well, what are his interests exactly?”

 “Well… He seems to like music quite a bit. He even plays the piano, violin, and cello.”

 “Jeez, you’d hope a guy like that would like music, with a name like ‘Piccolo…’” she mumbled mostly to herself. “Anyway, it’s a start. What genres of music does he seem to like?”

 In any other situation, Yamcha was sure he would be forced to stare at the blue-haired scientist with the look of a dear in headlights, at a complete loss for words. Now, however, he found that recalling the answer to such a question was as easy as though he’d literally just been given the information seconds ago.

 “Mostly classical and opera, though he seems to enjoy jazz as well.”

 “Huh. Interesting…” she mulled aloud, leaning back against the bench and staring up into the sky as she thought to herself. “I suppose he already owns any instrument he could play, and hunting down a working Stradivari for him would not only be next to impossible, but _waaay_ out of your price range…”

 After a while more of thinking about it. she suddenly stood up from her seat on the bench, turning to look down at him with renewed vigor.

 “Well, in this case, it sounds like the only thing for us to do is go window shopping!”

 “What do you think I’ve _been_ doing? I’ve been up and down this street for hours, yet I haven’t seen anything even close to something he’d like…” Yamcha replied with a dejected sigh. However, rather than accept his defeatism, Bulma tugged the ex-bandit up by his arm, coaxing him out of his seat.

 “Yeah, that’s because you’ve been looking in the wrong area! C’mon, I’ve got an idea.”

 And with that, she dragged Yamcha over to the edge of the sidewalk, raising her free arm to flag down a taxi. Once one such vehicle came to a stop in front of them, Bulma swung open the door, shoving both Yamcha and her shopping bags across the seat before getting in herself. She then instructed the driver of the cab to take them to a certain address, one Yamcha wasn’t entirely sure he recognized. The driver seemed to have no such problems, and he immediately took off towards another part of West City.

 

* * *

 

 

 “So…” Bulma began once the cab started on its way to their destination, “That Ivan guy… The one from your last baseball game… That was Piccolo, wasn’t it?”

 Yamcha looked down at the woman by his side, his eyes wide with shock. How the hell did she figure that out?! He hadn’t told anyone the truth of what had happened during that baseball game, not even Puar. Bulma seemed to notice his surprise at the situation, responding with a small smile.

 “Don’t worry, I only recently figured it our myself. I looked through those files you had dad look up, remember? I didn’t notice it before, but… That man you had him look up, he looked _exactly_ like the guy that beat you out there. Same exact name, too. Coincidences might happen, but not like that. Who else could live for almost a thousand years but a Namekian?”

 Yamcha, despite Bulma’s amiable and understanding tone, tensed up at hearing that.

 “So… You know what happened to him…” he replied softly. He didn’t like it. What had happened to Piccolo in the past… That felt like such a personal thing for him to know about, it felt wrong that someone else knew of it as well.

 “Not everything, no. I only know what was in that file, but I’m sure there’s more to it, isn’t there?” she asked, her soft smile shifting to a somewhat sad one. “But what I did read… That’s horrible, what happened to him… I can kinda understand why he is the way he is. I think I’d be anti-social too if all that happened to me.”

 Yamcha wasn’t sure how to reply to that, eventually just opting to sit there in silence. Luckily, Bulma was more than happy to do all the talking.

 “Honestly? I think you two are good for each other,” she added, drawing an audible gasp of surprise from him. She let out a small giggle of amusement at that. “I’m serious! I never would have imagined it, but you guys seem to play well with each other’s strengths and weaknesses. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but that’s a rare thing to find. I’m happy for you, I really am.”

 At first, Yamcha was at a loss for words. Bulma was… happy for them? Even though he knew everything was good between them now, it felt odd to hear something like that from someone he used to be romantically involved with. Still, he appreciated the sentiment, and eventually a pleasant smile spread across his lips.

 “Yeah… Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

 

 After about a ten minute drive, the two of them arrived in a part of town that Yamcha honestly couldn’t remember ever having been to. The shops seemed quite a bit less uniform than the ones in the main shopping district, though that seemed to have been a design choice rather than a lack of care. Quite to the contrary, everything around them seemed to be obsessively made to look a certain way, with each little shop having a drastically different look from its neighbors. Some were fitted with sleek, minimalistic window displays that didn’t detract from the art pieces proudly displayed within. Others were somewhat garishly decorated to the point where you could hardly tell exactly what it is they sold within. No matter the store, however different from one another, one could rest assured that they held one thing in common; they all had something to do with the arts, whether it be musical instruments or painting supplies or even a few small dance studios here and there.

 It dawned on Yamcha that this was the sort of place that Piccolo might actually enjoy visiting from time to time. Bulma was right; he _had_ been looking in the wrong place before. If there was something out there that would make a suitable gift, it would certainly be here.

 “So, anything catch your eye at all?” Bulma asked as they made their way past the eclectic collection of shops together.

 “Kinda… That record shop looked interesting, but I somehow doubt they’d have anything he’d like. It all looked a little too new for his tastes.”

 “Yeah, I guess…” she mumbled out in reply, biting at her bottom lip in thought. Then, out of nowhere, she stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes lighting up as though she caught sight of something up ahead.

 “I’ve got it! Come this way!” she said, grabbing him by the wrist and leading him quickly down the street. He followed along easily enough, though he had no clue what she could have seen to prompt this newfound energy. After turning a corner and venturing into a slightly busier section of the downtown area, she finally came to a stop.

 “ _Tada!_ ” she announced victoriously, if a bit out of breath from their brief run, and gestured towards a large building across the street. It was a large Broadway-style theater, one Yamcha could actually recall passing a few times. It staged mostly plays and musicals, with the occasional concert renting the venue from time to time.

 “Well? Think he’d like something like that?” she asked, staring up at him expectantly. Yamcha tilted his head to one side as he looked over the various posters advertising the current and upcoming shows, as though looking at them at a different angle would help him decide.

 “You really think he’d enjoy going to something like that? I don’t know how he’d feel about a musical…”

 Bulma couldn’t help but roll her eyes at that.

 “Hey, you said he was into opera, right? An opera is just a glorified musical! Trust me, I don’t think we’re going to find anything better than this.”

 Just as she said that, something seemed to click in Yamcha’s mind. He quickly looked over to the posters once more, zeroing in on one in particular. Slowly, his unsure expression dissolved into a confident smile. The next thing he knew, he was jogging across the street to the theater’s ticket office.

 

* * *

 

 

 For the next week, it took all of Yamcha’s willpower to not accidentally spoil the gift he’d gotten for Piccolo. He’d nearly let it slip several times right to his face, but always managed to cut himself off before giving away any vital details. Piccolo was curious about what his lover was hiding, but, to his credit, he seemed to understand that it was something harmless and decided to indulge him. He’d made a point not to pry into what it might be, even pretending to have not heard him whenever he’d almost spilled the beans on the whole thing.

 Finally, _mercifully_ , the date Yamcha had been waiting for arrived. He knew Piccolo wasn’t the type to enjoy any sort of fanfare, so he waited until later in the morning to casually spring it on him. He found him in the library mulling over a few of his old books. The former bandit gave the table a light knock so as to not startle him out of his concentration. Once Piccolo looked up, he held out a small envelope for him.

 “Hey, so… uhh… Happy birthday!”

 Piccolo looked mildly surprised at hearing that, as though he himself had forgotten all about his birthday. He accepted the envelope and, after deftly slicing it open, pulled out his gift: two tickets to a stage production of The Phantom of the Opera. A faint purple blush spread across his cheeks as he looked back up towards Yamcha, as though to confirm that no mistake had been made.

 “What do you think?” Yamcha asked with a nervous grin. “The show’s later tonight, so we’ve got a few hours to get ready. I’ve never been to something like this, so you’ll have to tell my what clothes are appropriate to wear to this sort of thing.”

 “I… I’d love to go, but…” Piccolo began, much to Yamcha’s dismay. Did he perhaps underestimate how much the stoic alien didn’t like public spaces?  Fortunately, his explanation cleared up those particular fears. “Are you sure _you_ want to go to something like this? I’m afraid you might find it terribly boring, and I wouldn’t want you to go to something you didn’t enjoy yourself…”

 “Honestly, I’ve never been to see a play or anything like that. It could be fun! Besides, you’re interested in stuff like this, and I wanna do stuff with you that you like, too! Who knows? Maybe I’ll like it just as much as you?”

 After that, Piccolo’s hesitant expression warmed into a serene smile.

 “Thank you… But, you know you didn’t have to get me anything. I haven’t celebrated my birthday in centuries, and I certainly wouldn’t have noticed if it passed by like any other day this year.”

 “Well, _yeah_ , but… What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t remind you of important dates like your own birthday? You already know I’d do anything you ask me to, so I gotta go above and beyond every now and then, y’know?”

 Piccolo let out a light chuckle at that, standing up from his seat at the library table to pull the other man into a warm embrace. Yamcha wrapped his arms around the giant’s neck as their foreheads came close enough to touch. Piccolo’s lips brushed lightly against his own and, just before they kissed properly, he whispered out something in that deep, sultry voice of his.

 “Love me… That’s all I ask of you.”


	15. Masks

 The next few months flew by like a dream. Yamcha enjoyed a pleasantly laid-back summer, with Piccolo ever at his side. He spent most of the time learning all he could from the stoic alien. He could now speak and understand at least very basic conversation in Russian, and he was now able to play a few simple songs on the piano. He wasn’t great at either skill, but it was enough to know that he was getting better. Of course, it helped to have the proper motivation, and what better drive to improve oneself was there than love?

 Over the past few days, however, that love was being put to the test. Piccolo had gotten quiet again out of nowhere, his whole demeanor shifting suddenly. He became quite anxious and distant, and he always seemed to be distracted by his own thoughts. Whenever Yamcha asked him what was wrong, he would lie and say that he was fine before quickly changing the subject.

 At first, Yamcha figured he must have recovered another memory that was bothering him. It had been a while since he'd remembered something from his former life, after all. But what could he have remembered that he wouldn't be willing to share with him? After all that Yamcha had seen already, and with how close they had gotten to each other, he'd figured there was nothing left that Piccolo wouldn't tell him. Now that there was, Yamcha found himself dreading what it could be. Perhaps he remembered an old lover, or perhaps...

Yamcha shook the thought from his head before it got the chance to properly materialize. No, he wasn't about to start doubting Piccolo now. That was something he just couldn't handle. Not now. _Not again_.

 There were a few other things odd about his lover’s behavior lately. Piccolo was going to see Dende quite a lot over the past week. That in itself wasn't terribly unusual. Piccolo still went up to the Lookout regularly to help train the young Guardian, not something that could be accomplished quickly by any means. However, he seemed to be staying up at Kami's Palace for longer than he used to. Yamcha tried to tell himself that the two Namekians must just be getting into subjects that required a little more in depth tutoring than usual, but with everything else...

 Then there were his habits at home. For the most part, he was willing to do almost anything he would normally do. He wasn't even hesitant to have sex – much to Yamcha's great relief. However, there was one thing Piccolo absolutely refused to do, and that was any sort of martial arts training. The two of them had sparred nearly every day since Yamcha had moved in with him, but he'd declined to do so for nearly a week now. When asked for an explanation, he refused to give a reason, dismissing the subject entirely by stating that he simply didn't want to, and that was that.

 The entire situation was driving Yamcha mad trying to deduce what was going on. He tried so hard to tell himself to be patient; that Piccolo would tell him what was happening in his own time, but damn if it wasn't hard to wait.

 Luckily, a distraction from such thoughts found its way to him that day. The doorbell rang, which was such a rare occurrence that Yamcha hardly recognized it as such. He furrowed his brow in confusion at the brassy chimes. Who the hell would be all the way out there in the middle of nowhere, let alone manage to find the old mansion? He made his way downstairs and opened the door, at which point he was greeted by a familiar face.

 "B-Bulma?!" he exclaimed in surprise, to which the blue haired scientist could only reply with an amused grin.

 "Hey there! I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

 "U-uhh... No, but... How'd you find me out here? I don't remember telling anyone where we lived just yet..."

 Bulma replied with a light chuckle.

 "Oh, I just took a chance and checked the address of Piccolo's place from his old records. Looks like my hunch was correct! I wanted to see where you lived now, and I gotta admit I've always been curious what kind of place Piccolo lived in. Mind if I come in?"

 Yamcha didn’t really get the chance to accept or deny, merely moving aside as Bulma stepped into the foyer. She looked around the entrance hall, letting out a mildly impressed whistle.

 “Not too shabby! This place looks just like the old mansions from historical movies!”

 “Well, it kinda _is_ …” Yamcha replied finally, pushing the door closed behind her.

 “Neat! So, how about a tour?”

 “T-tour..?” Yamcha repeated, a bit caught off-guard by the request.

 “Yeah, show me around! I’ve never been to a place like this. I sorta feels like a museum!”

 “A-alright, sure!” he replied with a nervous laugh, scratching at the back of his head. Somehow, he doubted he would have a choice in the matter.

 He decided to keep the tour to the first floor, which was typically where guests were allowed to roam anyway. The upstairs portion was mostly bedrooms and personal spaces, most of which remained unused at the moment. As the two walked through the old Victorianesque mansion, Bulma found herself at ease to start more casual conversation.

 “So, where’s Piccolo? Not here today?”

 The question seemed to stab right into the center of Yamcha’s current insecurities, but he managed to keep his doubts to himself for now.

 “Oh, he’s up at the Lookout training Dende. Apparently the old Guardian usually trains their replacement for several years in what their supposed to do before passing off the torch officially, so the little guy’s got a lot of catching up to do. Mr. Popo’s teaching him a lot, but there’s some things only Kami would be able to teach him, so… yeah.”

 “Okay, that makes sense. I never even thought of that… Guess we just kinda scrambled to find a Guardian who could create Dragon Balls without thinking of all the other things the job entails,” she replied as they made their way through one of the sitting rooms without much comment on the surroundings. Then, she seemed to remember something.

 “Oh, that’s right! Speaking of Piccolo, how’d he like his birthday gift? I completely forgot to ask the last time everyone was over.”

 Yamcha had nearly forgotten all about having taken Piccolo to the theater for his birthday, but upon recalling the night, he couldn’t help but grin happily.

 “He loved it! It was actually the first time he’d ever gotten to go to something like that in person, but he apparently read the book it was based on a long time ago.”

 “That’s great! What did _you_ think of it, though?”

 “Y’know, at first I thought it would be boring, but I actually liked it! It was a really cool story, and I was on the edge of my seat wondering what would happen next!”

 Bulma couldn’t help but snicker at that.

 “You cried for the Phantom at the end, didn’t you?”

 “ _N-no!_ ” he retorted forcefully, though the bright pink hue that spread across his cheeks was a dead giveaway that he was lying. She was merciful enough not to tease him about it, though, and merely responded with a light giggle.

 Their tour eventually took them to one of Piccolo’s favorite haunts; the library. Rather predictably, Bulma’s eyes lit up at seeing the two-story-tall bookshelves crammed full of old texts. She dashed inside and, much like Yamcha the first time he’d discovered the room, she zeroed in on one of the few books there that she was able to read. She gingerly lifted the worn old tome explaining Einstein’s theories of Relativity, fingering through it with rapt interest. After a moment of reading what she could of Ivan’s old notes – the complicated mathematical equations, mainly – she looked back at Yamcha with her mouth hanging agape slightly.

 “H-hey… These are all Piccolo’s old notes, right? How old was he when he wrote these?”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but blink in confusion at the question, unsure what difference it made.

 “Uhh… Somewhere between the ages of twelve and sixteen, I think?”

 Her eyes seemed to only widen further at that, and she found herself frantically reading over the notes once more. He could practically hear the gears turning at lightspeed in her head.

 “Th-this is really advanced stuff, especially for someone at that age! A-and this was hundreds of years ago…” she stammered out before finally looking back up at Yamcha again. “Does… Does he want a _job?_ ”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but chuckle at that, at first thinking she was joking. After a moment, though, it was clear she was dead serious.

 “No, _really!_ If he’s capable of this level of mathematical thought – and _self-taught_ , no less… I _need_ him at Capsule Corp.!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Eventually, Yamcha managed to drag Bulma from Piccolo’s impressive library, continuing on with the tour. It was clear that she was only half paying attention anymore, now far more preoccupied with how she could make use of Piccolo’s oft-forgotten level of intellect than of the subject at hand. Finally, however, he brought her to a fairly neglected portion of the ground floor that managed to pull her away from her internal calculations.

 They ventured into what could only be described as a grand dining hall – the sort of space that, in some circumstances, was meant to accommodate several large tables for friends, family, and other important guests to dine at, tables which could eventually be pushed aside to allow for an evening of dance. It was a ballroom, something even Bulma’s expensive Capsule Corp. home sadly lacked.

 Bulma couldn’t stop herself from letting out a high-pitched squeal, her hands pressing against her cheeks in joy as her eyes sparkled in wonder.

 “Oh my gosh, this is _perfect!_ ”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but stare blankly in confusion.

 “Uhh… Perfect for _what?_ ”

 “For a _party_ , of course!” she replied, at which point it took all of his self-control not to sigh audibly. It always came back to _that_ , didn’t it? Before he could respond, however, another voice interjected.

 “So, exactly how much should I charge the great Briefs family for renting my hall for such an event?”

 The two of them jumped in surprise when a third much deeper voice addressed them from behind. They turned, both coming face to face with the towering giant that was Piccolo. He smiled serenely at their surprised reaction, clearly amused that he’d managed to sneak up on them without the slightest sound. Of course, as the mysterious alien could hear damn near everything on the planet, such a task was not difficult for he of all people to accomplish.

 “H-hey, welcome home!” Yamcha replied nervously, clearly still shaken a bit by that slight jump scare. It made him feel as though he’d just gotten caught doing something untoward, even though his relationship with Bulma was now purely platonic. He knew Piccolo didn’t suspect him of such a thing by any means, but still...

 “So, uhh… How was training with Dende today?” he asked, merely trying to progress the conversation forward to avoid any awkward conversation. However, the fact that Piccolo instantly blushed lightly and averted his gaze from the two of them was a source of mild concern.

 “I-it… It went just fine…” the Namekian warrior replied before doing what he did best when such a thing was brought up: he rapidly changed the subject. “So, what sort of party were you planning this time, Bulma?”

 Bulma, clearly too distracted by the promise of planning a party to notice the tension between the two men, replied with an excited grin.

 “You’d _really_ let me have a party here?!” she squealed out excitedly, as though she were a little girl who’d just been told that she could have full run of a candy store. “Well, if I _can_ , I’ve always wanted to go to a fancy masquerade ball, and this would be the absolutely perfect place for it! What do you guys think? Would that be okay?”

 “Uhh… What the hell is a masquerade?” Yamcha asked, genuinely confused by the phrase. He’d honestly never heard of such a thing. Piccolo was quick to provide an answer, ever present with his extensive knowledge of random historical facts.

 “Masquerade balls originated in Renaissance era Europe, when many aspects of society became far more formalized than before. The masquerade was a kind of party, inspired by the Venetian Carnival, where one could shed the societal expectations of the time, appear in virtual anonymity, and mingle with others with no regard for class or status. Essentially, the only rule is that you are to appear in costume so that the others in attendance can’t recognize you, but clearly that rule can be loosened for a party like this where we all know each other quite well. In essence, it is a semi-formal party dedicated to letting loose and having fun. By today’s standards, it would still seem somewhat stuffy and proper, but back then it was quite the liberating experience.”

 “W-wow,” Bulma responded, clearly amazed at how much he knew of the subject. Yamcha was equally as mesmerized, staring after his lover for a long moment. Piccolo was clearly uncomfortable with the long moment of scrutinizing stares, looking away with embarrassment flushing his face a deep purple.

 “Th-that’s, err… not important, though…” he mumbled out self-consciously, shrinking away slightly as though he was resisting the urge to run away from the interaction. Bulma, to her credit, seemed to sense his social anxiety as well as Yamcha himself could, responding with a friendly smile.

 “Oh, not at all! That’s really cool, actually!” she responded with genuine enthusiasm. “That really sounds perfect! I can arrange for all the catering and costumes for everyone if you’d let us have the party here. Is that alright?”

 “Y-yes, that’s fine,” Piccolo stammered out in response, clearly not used to organizing such a gathering. “Just let me know when you’d like it to happen and I’ll ensure that everything is ready.”

 “Great!” Bulma replied enthusiastically, already making her way towards the exit in anticipation of planning such a one-of-a-kind evening. “I’ll call you guys later on tonight with the specifics! See ya later!”

 And with that, the two men were left standing alone in the great dining hall. Yamcha couldn’t remember experiencing such a moment as tense as that since the two of them had started dating. He knew something was wrong – he just _knew_ – but he couldn’t bring himself to ask what it might be. Similarly, Piccolo seemed to be rather tight-lipped on what it was that had been bothering him recently. The moment descended into a dreaded air of awkward silence, as the two of them seemed unable or unwilling to make eye-contact with one another. Finally, surprisingly, it was Piccolo who broke the silence.

 “Look, I… I’ve been meaning to tell you, I…” but he trailed off there, apparently unwilling to complete his confession. Yamcha chanced a quick peek over towards his boyfriend, but the alien man had already thoroughly averted his gaze at that point, his hand rubbing nervously at his opposite arm. Finally, he managed to bring himself to respond verbally.

 “I… It’s nothing… Never mind… Everything’s fine…” he replied in a whisper that was barely audible. Piccolo quickly took his leave of the situation, leaving Yamcha alone in the great hall to wonder after what exactly was going on.


	16. Patience... Rewarded

 The next few days were agonizingly tense for Yamcha. All of the oddities in Piccolo's behavior continued undeterred, and if anything he seemed to be getting even quieter. The former bandit quickly learned that, if he wanted to maintain any semblance of a conversation with his lover, he had to avoid the subject completely. It ate at him to just leave it at that, but he'd run out of other ideas. He just had to be patient. That's what he kept telling himself. Just be patient...

 Luckily, he had a handy distraction from such things. Bulma had her heart set on hosting a masquerade ball at the Scherbakov mansion, and that meant that the two of them could busy themselves with preparing for the event. Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely accurate. Everything was already in order, mostly taken care of by Bulma herself, as promised. It was _Yamcha_ that needed preparing.

 The two of them met in the ballroom, where Piccolo was currently off to the side next to a small table. He hovered his hand over the surface and, in a small puff of white smoke, a record player appeared out of thin air. Yamcha, despite having seen him do such a thing several times now, couldn't help but stare in amazement.

 "Man, I wish I knew how to do that. Is that a Namekian thing, or can anyone learn it?"

 Piccolo gave him an amused smile at the question as he made his way to the center of the massive room to rejoin the other man.

 "I don't see why anyone can't learn it, but I suppose it might be easier for Namekians because of our natural telekinetic abilities. I first got the idea that it could be possible when I was studying Einstein's theories."

 "Really?" Yamcha asked, rather surprised by that answer. "I thought relativity was all about time, and the speed of light and stuff like that. How does that translate into making stuff out of thin air?"

 "Oh, it's deceptively simple once you think about it," Piccolo began, his demeanor brightening as it often did whenever he had the opportunity to explain something new to him. "You just look at his famous equation: E equals MC squared. E is energy, M is mass, and C is the speed of light. What you have, then, is 'energy is equal to mass times the speed of light squared.' What's interesting is that energy and mass are on opposite sides of the equation. For this particular purpose, the speed of light isn't really a factor. Discard that, and what you essentially have is 'energy equals mass.'

 "Now, the only thing in the universe that has mass is physical matter. Thinking of it in this way, the equation now becomes 'energy equals matter.'"

 "Wait..." Yamcha interrupted, clearly struggling to wrap his head around the subject. "That doesn't make sense. How can energy just equal matter like that? Wouldn't that mean they're the same thing?"

 " _Precisely!_ " Piccolo replied enthusiastically. For a brief moment, Yamcha felt as though he was looking into the bright, eager eyes of his lover's teenaged self, back when he first found himself utterly enraptured in the emerging sciences of his era. It was nice seeing him so excited about something for a change.

 "At their absolute smallest building blocks, both energy and matter are made up of the same particles. This means that energy can become matter, and vice versa."

 Once he said that last bit, however, the smile on the Namekian's face faded.

 "Unfortunately, as I was developing a way to turn my own energy into matter, humans were working towards the opposite goal – turning matter into energy – and to devastating effect. A few months after you rescued me from the military hospital in Poland, the American forces dropped two atom bombs on Japan, one in Hiroshima, the other in Nagasaki. I could hear it... I could _feel_ it… even from half a world away. Thousands were vaporized in an instant, and thousands more died horrific and painful deaths in the autumnal fallout...

 "Humans have always had this rather peculiar talent. They will discover something that could potentially be used to help people, yet they will always find a way to use it to hurt them instead."

 The conversation died out into a somber silence at that. Yamcha couldn’t help but feel bad for Piccolo. Science seemed to have been something the Namekian had previously loved, but he’d seen it turn into something so ugly right in front of his eyes. Piccolo seemed to notice that he’d inadvertently killed the mood, as he quickly attempted to correct course.

 “But I’ve gotten terribly off-topic… You wanted to learn how to do it yourself, didn’t you?”

 “O-oh, no, that’s alright. It sounds really complicated. I don’t think I’d get it no matter how well you taught me.”

 Piccolo let out a light chuckle at that, a small smirk appearing across his lips.

 “In that case, why don’t we teach you something a bit less complex – like what we came here to do in the first place, for instance.”

Yamcha’s cheeks warmed lightly as Piccolo stepped up very close to him, taking hold of his right hand and wrapping his free arm around to the middle of the shorter man’s back. The scarred bandit looked up at the towering giant, letting out a nervous laugh.

 “I-I dunno… I think I might be just as bad at _this_ , to be honest…”

 “Don’t worry; it’s just a waltz. It’s really very simple, once you know what you’re supposed to be doing. Just follow my lead and you’ll pick up on it in no time.”

 With that, Piccolo glanced over towards the record player he’d placed earlier, telekinetically turning it on. After a moment, Shostakovich’s Waltz No. 2 began to play, setting an even rhythm for them to start dancing to. Piccolo gave simple instructions from time to time, and Yamcha was quite surprised to find that it wasn’t nearly as hard as he’d feared. It seemed the coordination he’d developed as a martial artist crossed over quite nicely into dance. After a while, he gradually became confident enough to stop staring at his feet and look up at his partner instead.

 “I gotta say, even with everything else, I never expected you to know something like ballroom dancing. It doesn’t seem like your thing.”

 “Honestly, it’s not. I had no interest in dancing, but I was forced to learn for my sister’s wedding. Tatyana herself was my partner when I was learning, and I remember how she teased me mercilessly the entire time, making a game of trying to get me utterly flustered.”

 “So now it’s my turn to get the newbie hazing, huh?”

 Piccolo laughed lightly at that.

 “Oh no, I would not be so cruel…” he began casually. Then, he leaned down until their foreheads touched, moving his hand down to Yamcha’s waist and pulling their bodies closer together. His voice lowered to a seductive whisper as he added, “… Unless you _want_ me to be.”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but grin in response, a pleasurable chill running through his body at the deep rumble emanating mere inches from his face. It seemed as though the distance between them would close further still until their lips could touch, but…

 Yamcha felt Piccolo grab hold of his shoulders suddenly, trying to steady himself as he nearly lost his balance. He let out a small yelp of surprise, reaching up to help stabilize his lover. Luckily, the Namekian managed to get his feet under him again before he could take a fall.

 “H-hey, are you alright?”

 “Y-yeah, I’m fine,” Piccolo shot back immediately, though his expression betrayed a hint of confusion. “I just… Got dizzy all of a sudden for some reason…”

 “Do you want to take a break?”

 “Yeah… Yeah, I think we’d better do that,” he replied softly, slipping seamlessly back into his old subdued and quiet nature. He quietly excused himself from Yamcha’s company and slipped out of the ballroom, leaving the man there to stew in his own confusion.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Finally, the night of the ball arrived. The mansion’s ballroom, though it looked rather large when empty, certainly filled up quickly. Bulma had spared no expense in funding the party, as was her habit. One full wall of the great hall was lined with tables, upon which a seemingly endless supply of food and drink was resting. She’d even hired a small orchestral ensemble to play the music for the evening. When she said she wanted to throw a real masquerade, she really wasn’t kidding!

 Everyone else seemed to be into the whole thing, likely intrigued just because the very concept of the event seemed different and alluring. Tenshinhan even bothered to show up, and with Launch in tow as his date for the night. Krillin had brought along Android 18 once more, who looked surprisingly stunning in a crystal blue gown that seemed to match her icy eyes. It seemed the short monk had finally found the right girl for him, and the lot of them would have to get over what few reservations they might have left about having her around, because she wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, the only ones missing from the gathering were the very young children – Trunks and Chi Chi’s newborn son Goten – and, of course, Vegeta.

 Yamcha was surprised that Vegeta passed up this party. Being so uptight about being a prince, you’d think he would enjoy the pomp and circumstance, but apparently not. Bulma was obviously a little miffed about her husband refusing to show up, and after a few drinks she was loudly declaring that she ‘don’t need no man to have a good time’ and started to dance with Chi Chi instead, much to everyone’s amusement.

 Yamcha found himself standing off to one side of the room, fiddling with the Oni-inspired mask covering the upper half of his face. It felt weird to have something on his face like that, but he supposed he could deal with it for one night. Luckily his costume wasn’t as uncomfortable. He decided to go with something in a Chinese style, which was a lot closer to what he was used to wearing. He wasn’t alone in the style choice, though. Tenshinhan and Chi Chi were dressed in similar clothing, while most everyone else wore more traditional European styles. He was sure Piccolo would be in the latter group when he eventually gathered up the courage to show up.

 “Hey there, stranger.”

 Well, speak of the devil. Upon hearing the familiar voice behind him, Yamcha turned to face him with a happy grin on his face. Once he saw him, however, he felt his heart pound in his chest, his cheeks flushing a deep red under his mask. Piccolo’s outfit wasn’t too far removed from the suit he used to wear as a teenager, though the materials were obviously of a much finer quality. He wore a crimson and black brocade waistcoat over a black silk shirt, a dark caplet hugging his broad shoulders and secured with an intricate gold chain across his chest. The mask he wore covered hardly more that his eyes and the bridge of his nose, and it looked as though it were made of fine black lace. He flashed his stunned lover a smile, the sight of his impressive fangs tying in perfectly with the overall vampiric vibe his outfit gave off.

 “W-wow!” Yamcha exclaimed, his heart still fluttering away in his chest at the sight of the truly dapper alien that stood over him. “You look great!”

 “And you look incredibly uncomfortable,” Piccolo retorted with an amused chuckle. He then offered him a small glass, the contents of which was clearly alcoholic. “You don’t have to wear that mask all night, by the way. You can take it off if it’s bothering you.”

Yamcha accepted the drink without hesitation, immediately removing and discarding his mask to take a sip. He was grateful for being allowed to free his face, even if it technically went against the spirit of the party.

 “Thanks,” he replied as he pulled the edge of the glass from his lips. “Did you get anything to drink yet? Bulma set up an open bar, so now’s the time to have at it.”

 “O-oh, no, that’s quite alright,” he replied timidly, a faint hue of purple appearing underneath his mask. “I’m… I’m not in the mood right now. Perhaps later.”

 “Sure, no problem,” Yamcha replied before taking another sip of his drink. He wasn’t going to push Piccolo into drinking if he really didn’t want to.

 “Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. This is actually a pretty cool party! We should do this more often, huh?”

 “Sure, I wouldn’t mind that every now and then,” Piccolo replied, looking on after the guests of the party with a serene smile on his face. Yamcha looked out across the ballroom, watching as Tenshinhan danced with Launch, Krillin danced with 18, and Bulma danced with Chi Chi. Even Puar was out dancing around with Oolong, each of them transformed into a more anthropomorphic human form to better facilitate the activity. They all looked like they were having fun out there, so much so that he was tempted to ask Piccolo out to dance with him. He eventually decided that there was nothing to lose by it, and he turned to look up at his lover once more.

 “Hey, do you want to—”

 Yamcha cut himself off abruptly mid-sentence, turning around to find that Piccolo was no longer standing next to him. He furrowed his brows in confusion, looking around for where he could have gotten off to. Eventually, he noticed that one of the doors leading to the balcony outside was open. A quick sense around for energy confirmed that Piccolo was indeed out there. Yamcha abandoned his half-finished drink aside on the nearest table before venturing outside after his boyfriend.

 He found Piccolo out there, his hands resting against the banister as he looked down out into the green field below. Yamcha was genuinely unsure if he was simply enjoying the view under the light of the full moon, or if he was feeling ill. The former bandit decided to err on the side of caution, approaching the alien and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

 “H-hey, are you okay?” he asked, his concern coming through clearly in his voice.

 “I’m fi—" Piccolo began, clearly about to lie and say that he was fine again, but he was cut off when he had to slap his hand over his mouth as though trying to resist the urge to puke. Yamcha rushed over closer to his side, rubbing the Namekian’s back gently as he attempted to compose himself. Once the feeling subsided, Piccolo let out a small sigh, though if it was one of relief or resignation, Yamcha couldn’t be sure.

 “I… No, I’m not… I’m not okay…” Piccolo admitted eventually, his shoulders wilting in defeat. Yamcha could feel his heart sink upon hearing that. Had Piccolo somehow been hiding a problem with his health? Was that why he refused to spar recently, and why he refused to drink earlier?

 “H-hey, listen…” Yamcha began hesitantly, though he still rubbed gently at his boyfriend’s back in an effort to comfort him. “You can tell me anything, y’know?  I don’t care what it is, I want to know what’s going on with you. Please, be _honest_ with me. That’s… that’s all I ask of you…”

 He could feel Piccolo flinch lightly at that familiar line. Eventually, the stoic alien seemed to relax under his touch, slipping himself out from under his comforting hand to turn and look him in the eye.

 “I… I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you recently…” Piccolo began, a truly remorseful expression overcoming his face. Yamcha could already feel his heart sinking ever deeper at the direction this conversation was taking, but he listened patiently for now.

 “I’m sure you’ve noticed… I’ve done a horrible job at masking my behavior lately…” Piccolo continued, unable to look his lover straight in the eye for long as he explained himself. “I-I know I should have told you sooner, but… I was just so afraid how you’d react. Hell, until recently, I wasn’t sure how _I_ felt about the whole situation, but… Now I know, and I can’t keep it from you any longer.”

 Yamcha could feel all the warmth draining from his body upon hearing that. This was it, wasn’t it? He could feel it. This was the moment when Piccolo would dump him. He’d finally seen through his charm, and there was every possibility that he’d already found someone else that suited him better. That was just Yamcha’s luck. He wasn’t the guy of someone’s dreams. He was the guy people met _before_ meeting the guy of their dreams. He let out a resigned sigh, preparing himself for the worst.

 “I-it’s… it’s okay. Please, tell me,” Yamcha replied eventually, averting his eyes from his lover’s gaze. He may have been willing to hear the truth, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to watch the Namekian warrior deliver the crushing news. He wanted to remember him as the unusual man who had given him the most memorable year of his life, not as the man who destroyed the last of all of his hopes and dreams. After a long, tense moment of silence, Piccolo released a heavy sigh, and Yamcha braced himself for the crushing heartbreak he was sure to feel.

 “I’m… I’m pregnant...”

 Yamcha’s eyes popped open wide upon hearing that. Well, that was certainly not what he was expecting. He looked back up to Piccolo in utter astonishment, his heart suddenly fluttering so high in his chest that he feared it might fly clean out of his mouth. Were his ears deceiving him? Had he heard that properly?

 “Y-you’re… you’re having a baby..?” Yamcha asked hesitantly, his voice barely a whisper. Even so, Piccolo nodded his head in the affirmative.

 “A-and… And it’s _mine?!_ ” he added, his voice gaining strength as the realization gradually started to dawn on him. Piccolo couldn’t help but blush profusely at that particular line of questioning.

 “O-of _course_ it’s yours! Who else would it be?! I’ve never _been_ with anyone else!” he shot back in retort, sounding almost offended that Yamcha could believe that the child was anyone’s but his. Yamcha didn’t seem to pick up on that, far too distracted by the information he was just given to really care how such a question would come across. His mouth split into a joyous grin, happy tears gathering in his eyes despite himself. Without warning, he flung himself at Piccolo, pulling him close into a warm embrace and burying his face against the larger man’s chest.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” he managed to blurt out against his lover’s chest as he held him close. Eventually, he could feel Piccolo’s tense body relax in his grasp, and a pair of strong arms soon wrapped around him to return the embrace.

 Yamcha couldn’t begin to imagine a moment in which he’d felt so much relief – or, even better, so much happiness. In that one moment, he realized that he’d finally gotten everything he’d wanted. His wishes had all been fulfilled. He was finally going to be a daddy.

  _He was finally going to be a daddy!_

__


	17. Training Day

 For the next several weeks, there wasn't a single thing that could have wiped away the giddy grin from Yamcha's face. Part of him still couldn't believe that he and Piccolo were going to be parents soon – that he was finally going to be a _father!_ He'd never even _considered_ the possibility that they could have a child together. He knew that all Namekians shared the same gender, and that all of them were capable of having a baby, but... he never imagined that a Namekian and a human could have one together. The two of them were so different, it felt like an honest to God miracle that it happened at all.

 The news got out almost immediately, much to Piccolo's chagrin. Bulma had come looking for them after she saw them slip out at the masquerade, finding them out on the balcony together. After a teasing cat-call and a comment suggesting they get a room, Yamcha found himself just blurting out what he'd just found out, far too excited by the news to even consider keeping it to himself. Bulma seemed equally elated by the news and, not being the type to keep a secret, she immediately ran back inside and told everyone.

 Yamcha did feel a little sorry for Piccolo after that, as he looked as though he would die of utter embarrassment while the others offered their congratulations to the two of them. A source of further dread for him was soon brewing among the women of the group, as tended to happen lately. A plot to 'help' the soon-to-be parents was quickly devised, which was why, some weeks later, the two of them found themselves walking up the pathway leading to Bulma's house.

 Their arrival seemed to have been eagerly anticipated, as the front door of the large dome-shaped house swung open even as they were still approaching. Bulma poked her head out, a mischievous grin already plastered across her face.

 "Hey guys! Welcome to day one of daddy training camp!" she announced with a small giggle before turning her attention more towards Piccolo specifically. "Wow, busting out the comfy mom clothes already, are we?"

 Piccolo's face instantly flushed a deep purple at that, and he quickly averted his gaze to keep from having to stare at that teasing grin of hers. The Namekian had worn a simple dark sweater tucked into a pair of jeans. Honestly, Yamcha himself wasn't dressed much differently, but he was known to wear clothes like that from time to time, where his partner certainly wasn't.

 "Look, I'm not about to get all dressed up if I'm just going to be spending all day looking after a seven-month-old and a two-year-old," he explained as casually as he could manage, though it was clear that he was still quite flustered. Bulma decided to go easy on him for once and let it be at that before leading the two of them inside.

 Once they entered the living room, they found that Chi Chi was there already, sitting on one of the couches with her infant son held in her lap. Goten merely sat there and stared up at the two men curiously, a bit of drool rolling down his chin. Chi Chi greeted them with a smile, but her eyes soon narrowed in suspicion.

 "Hey, aren't you far enough along to be showing at least a little bit now? When are you supposed to be due, anyway?" she practically interrogated Piccolo, scrutinizing his midsection as though she was offended that his waist was so trim. The deep purple blush returned to his face in an instant at being asked such a thing. He was clearly still not used to discussing stuff like that, even with people he knew fairly well.

 "I-I'm supposed to have the egg sometime in February, according to Dende..." he managed to stammer out reluctantly. Now Chi Chi looked genuinely offended.

 "Hold on! You're due in _four months_ and you still look like _that?!_ What kind of alien voodoo magic are you pulling here?!"

 "I'm not pulling anything! You're just looking in the wrong spot!" he retorted, his embarrassed blush now extending to the tips of his ears. Chi Chi's expression shifted to one of mild confusion.

 "Uhh... So where am I _supposed_ to be looking?" she asked, arching a single brow at him. Piccolo seemed unable to answer directly, looking away bashfully as he tapped a hand lightly in the center of his chest.

 "Y-you're wasting your time looking, anyway... Namekians don't really 'show' when we're pregnant... Not like you humans do…"

 Regardless, Chi Chi found herself staring at his chest for a long moment as though trying to discern if he was telling the truth or not. Finally, she seemed to accept it, but not before thinking up one more question.

 "Okay, so... If _that's_ where the baby is... How exactly did he get you pregnant? Are we talking blow job, or—"

 "Okay, you know what? Anatomy lessons are officially _over!_ " Piccolo interjected forcefully, looking more flustered than any of them had ever seen him. Yamcha himself couldn't help but blush a bit at where that conversation had started to go, now quite grateful that his boyfriend had put an abrupt end to it. Bulma, however, was currently doubled over and laughing so hard it looked like she could barely breathe.

Once the laughter and awkwardness subsided, Bulma and Chi Chi proceeded to give the two of them a quick rundown of what they were expected to do. They were mostly shown how to take care of Goten’s specific needs. He wasn’t exactly a newborn anymore, but he was far closer than Trunks was. Yamcha was surprised at just how little they needed to teach them. Sure, they were taught how to hold him properly, how to feed him, how to change his diaper… but there wasn’t much more than that. All in all, they spent all of fifteen minutes being shown what to do before the two women left the infant in their care and headed for the door.

 “Alright, good luck, you two! We’ll be back in a few hours!” Bulma announced with a grin. She then closed the door behind them before the two men could utter any protest. Yamcha could only stare at the back of the door for a long while even after they left, some part of him half-expecting them to come back inside and laugh over it as though they were just kidding about leaving them there. After it was quite clear that Bulma and Chi Chi wouldn’t be back anytime soon, he turned to stare up at Piccolo.

 “Why does it feel like they just duped us into babysitting for free?”

 “Because that’s exactly what they did…” Piccolo grumbled out through his teeth, his eyes narrowing at the back of the door as though convinced that the two women could feel his scorn at the situation they left them in. Goten merely stared up at the giant alien that was holding him, completely unperturbed by his appearance. The infant then flopped himself down fully against Piccolo’s chest, rubbing his little face against the soft fabric of his sweater, smearing drool and probably snot across it.

 “Gross…” Yamcha commented under his breath. Much to his surprise, Piccolo didn’t seem too bothered by it, reacting with little more than a sigh.

 “And _that’s_ why I dressed the way I did,” the Namekian replied, still trying to justify his decisions against Bulma’s ‘mom clothes’ comment earlier. “Anyway, you always wanted to be a dad, right? Well, get used to it. This is our life soon.”

 Yamcha then watched as Piccolo made his way around to the couch, settling himself down into the cushions and just letting Goten do what he wished within the confines of his arms – which, at the moment, consisted of gumming uselessly at a fold in the alien’s shirt. Yamcha soon joined him in the seat next to him, staring slightly as his lover seemed to have completely accepted the situation that had been thrust upon them.

 “So, uhh… You seem pretty calm about all this.”

 “Yeah, I got all of my freaking out about the whole ‘becoming parents’ thing in the first few weeks. Nothing to do now but do our best to be prepared.”

 “You seem like a complete natural with him, though. You already know what to do and everything.”

 “You’re kidding, right?” Piccolo retorted, shooting him a questioning sort of smile. “I seem to remember _you_ being there for the same little tutorial I got.”

 “I mean, _yeah_ , but… You’re not phased by any of this. You were just told what to do, and you just _do_ it like it’s no big deal. And here I am, still kinda afraid to even _hold_ Goten. He’s not even that little, and I’m still afraid I might hurt him…”

 “That’s just because you’ve never done it before. You’re not used to it.”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but stare at Piccolo for a moment upon hearing that.

 “So… That means you _have?_ ”

 A slight hint of purple returned to the Namekian’s cheeks, but he could tell he wasn’t anywhere near as embarrassed by the line of questioning as he was earlier.

 “I-I’ve never _raised_ a child before, no… But a Guardian’s duties takes them to unexpected places. At times, Kami would go down to Earth in disguise as a human to rescue lost or abandoned children and take them somewhere safe to be cared for. Sometimes those children were just a few days old, and he learned to care for them in the hours or days it might have taken him to find an appropriate place to leave them. Namekian babies might be a little different, and for that I have Nail’s memories to guide me, but… Well, ours _is_ going to be half-human, after all, so I guess this isn’t entirely a wasted experience.”

 Yamcha supposed that made sense, but the sentiment still stood; Piccolo already had way more experience in all this than he did. Hell, he didn’t have _any_ experience in taking care of children. It was all just a dream before, but now that all the little details of what parenthood entailed were starting to pile up in his mind… He was starting to fear that he didn’t have what it took to be a good father.

 That wasn’t to say he was having second thoughts about the whole thing. He was still quite excited to be a father, and regardless of how he felt about it, it was a little too late to go back on that now. But where once he held only excitement and anticipation, now there was also this deep-seated dread that he would somehow find a way to fuck it all up in the most disastrous of ways.

 Suddenly, a small tug on his arm pulled him from his thoughts. Yamcha glanced down, and soon he found himself staring into the big dark eyes of Goku’s youngest son as they stared back up at him. The infant was being held out for him to take, a tiny little hand already grabbing at his sleeve. Yamcha flinched slightly at the abrupt prospect of holding the child. Piccolo seemed to notice and offered him a reassuring smile.

 “Go on. You’ll never learn if you don’t try,” he assured softly. At his further hesitance, the Namekian continued, “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Just the fact that you’re worrying yourself to death over it now is a sure sign you’ll make a great father.”

 Yamcha felt his heart skip a beat at that. Was that true? Were all of his fears actually a _good_ thing? He glanced back down at Goten once more, who still stared up at him expectantly. He’d always heard that fathers were supposed to be these invincible creatures in the eyes of their children, that they were supposed to be brave men that knew no fear. But perhaps he’d gotten that wrong. After all, bravery was not the lack of fear, but having the courage to overcome one’s fears. Maybe that’s what he had to do now.

 Slowly, he reached out to take Goten in his arms. A fresh bolt of panic shot through his body the instant Piccolo let go, genuinely afraid that he might drop the child. When that didn’t happen, he felt a surge of relief, and gently held the young boy against his chest.

 “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Piccolo said, beaming a proud smile down at his lover. Yamcha let a small, nervous smile creep across his face.

 “Y-yeah, I guess not…” he replied, lowering his voice slightly now that he was holding a baby, afraid to startle him by speaking too loud. Goten stared up at him for a moment more, calm as could be, before suddenly his little face scrunched up unhappily. He let out a whine that threatened on the verge of tears, at which point Yamcha’s sense of panic returned in full force.

 “Wh-what’d I do?! Did I do something wrong?!” he asked somewhat frantically, immediately looking to Piccolo for help. The Namekian merely replied with an amused chuckle.

 “Don’t worry, he’s fine. He’s probably just hungry.”

 “But… Chi Chi literally just fed him before they left!”

 “Yeah, well… I guess we should both be grateful that neither of us are Saiyans.”

 With that, Piccolo got up and headed out into the kitchen. Fortunately, he wasn’t gone for long, returning with a bottle of formula hardly a minute later.

 “Here, have at it,” he said, holding out the bottle for him.

 “Y-you want _me_ to do it?” Yamcha replied, staring at it as though he was being handed a live tarantula.

 “Why not? You may as well learn all you can while we’ve got Goten to practice on.”

 “Y-yeah, but…” he began, hesitantly accepting the bottle. The instant Goten saw it, however, his hangs flew up to try to grab at it. Yamcha blinked down at the infant in confusion before holding the bottle near his mouth. Goten practically snatched it out of his hand, falling silent as soon as he shoved it in his mouth.

 “Wow. Uhh… That was easy.”

 Piccolo flashed him a smirk, settling back onto the couch next to him.

 “He’s old enough that you don’t need to do anything special. Newborns are a little different, but we’ll get to that when the time comes.”

 Well, Yamcha certainly wasn’t about to complain about that. He’d take any break he could get today. Unfortunately, that seemed to be the end of the breaks he would be getting. They heard him before they saw him; the rhythmic thumping of a two-year-old running down the hall towards them. Piccolo let out a sigh of dread.

 “Dammit, I forgot we were watching Trunks too…” he groaned out, hanging his head a bit. Yamcha furrowed his brow in mild confusion.

 “Wait… you can handle a little baby, but a toddler scares you?”

 Piccolo looked him dead in the eye with the most serious look on his face that Yamcha had ever seen.

 “Listen… I’ve watched humans for hundreds of years, through every stage of life, and let me tell you… There’s a _reason_ they call them the ‘terrible twos.’”

 As if on cue, Trunks ran into the living room, his lavender hair bouncing with each step. He barely even slowed down when he saw the two men sitting there on the couch, making a bee-line for them. Yamcha wasn’t entirely sure what he intended to do, and thus was utterly unprepared for the sudden shout of, “ _Mine!_ ”

 In an instant, the toddler had snatched the bottle from Goten’s mouth before sprinting right back out again, at which point the infant let out a shrill, ear-piercing cry. Piccolo let a growl rumble in his throat, immediately leaping up from the couch to give chase after the mischievous child. That left Yamcha alone with a screaming baby and no clue how to make him stop.

 “Ah, jeez…” he grumbled out under his breath, staring down hopelessly at the child in his lap. What the hell was he supposed to do now?! Goten continued to wail loudly, inconsolable tears streaming down his cheeks. Yamcha glanced up after where Piccolo had disappeared, hoping desperately that he’d spot him walking back with Goten’s bottle in hand. What he spotted instead was Trunks dashing past the open doorway once more, likely on his third or fourth circuit around the house. Piccolo was currently leaning against the doorframe trying to catch his breath. Yamcha couldn’t help but smirk lightly.

 “Wow, how does he have you that winded already? You do more strenuous stuff than this all the time.”

 Piccolo shot back a severely annoyed glare at his lover, making him flinch slightly.

 “I’d like to see _you_ try to run after him with an egg the size of a melon pressing against your lungs…” he retorted, at which point Yamcha finally took notice of how Piccolo was holding a hand against his chest as he panted lightly. The ex-bandit felt yet another surge of panic, though this time for his boyfriend’s wellbeing. He got up from the couch and immediately dashed over to his side.

 “A-are you alright?!” he asked somewhat frantically, to which Piccolo nodded.

 “I’m fine. I just need a minute…”

 “R-right…” Yamcha Yamcha replied nervously. Then, he got an idea. “Here, I’ll trade ya. You take Goten and go sit down. I’ll take care of Trunks.”

 Piccolo wasn’t about to argue with that. He accepted the still-crying infant without complaint, at which point Yamcha was free to go running after Trunks in his place.

 He managed to find the toddler fairly quickly just by listening for the light thumping of his uncoordinated footfalls. Once in his sights, Trunks glanced back at him, suddenly picking up speed once he noticed that someone new was chasing after him. Yamcha’s eyes widened slightly at seeing this new burst of speed. Okay, maybe he’d teased too soon about Piccolo being out of breath from chasing this kid, pregnant or not.

 Trunks seemed all set to take him round and round the house just as he’d done to the Namekian before, but somehow he took a wrong turn. The boy skidded to a stop in what appeared to be a child’s playroom. Upon seeing that there were no other exits, he turned to dash out again, but Yamcha was there to block the entrance this time.

 “Alright, kiddo, playtime’s over! Now just give me that bottle and you won’t get in trouble.”

 Trunks, it seemed, was not the type of child to be reasoned with in such a way. He hugged the bottle to his chest, replying with a defiant, “Mine!”

 “No, that’s not yours. It’s Goten’s. Now give it back, or else!”

 Trunks shook his head furiously.

 “ _Miiiiine!_ ”

 Yamcha let out a frustrated groan. Now he was starting to see why Piccolo dreaded watching the toddler. But what was he supposed to do here? If he just snatched the bottle away, then they’d have a screaming, crying two-year-old on their hands instead – potentially an even bigger headache than just having Goten crying. He had to find some way of making him let it go on his own, or distracting him, or…

 Suddenly, he thought of something, a sly smirk spreading across his lips.

 “Alright, you leave me no choice but to use my secret technique!” he announced, crouching down into his classic fighting stance. Trunks interest was immediately piqued, and he watched Yamcha with the same intensity as a seasoned fighter waiting to catch their opponent’s next move. Finally, Yamcha dashed forward with a shout of, “Wolf Fang Tickle Fist!”

 Trunks let out a surprised yelp at that, and soon the toddler was rolling around on the ground, laughing uncontrollably as he was mercilessly tickled. Soon enough, he released his grasp on the bottle, too distracted to remember he was holding it at all. Yamcha grabbed the bottle before Trunks could recover, hiding it behind his back before finally releasing the boy from his tickle onslaught. Trunks, still laughing, dashed past Yamcha and out into the hall once more, clearly still expecting to be chased.

 “Oh, no! He got away! Whatever shall I do?” Yamcha called after him in a tone of faux shock, making his way back out to the living room to deliver the stolen bottle to its proper owner. Once he got out there, however, he had to stop and stare at what he saw. Goten was now completely silent, his eyes half closed as he lay there against Piccolo’s chest, well on his way to sleep. He just barely caught the sound of the Namekian softly humming a tune to the child, though he cut himself off as soon as Yamcha walked into the room. The former bandit couldn’t believe his eyes. How’d he do that?!

 “Alright, now _that’s_ gotta be some alien voodoo magic,” Yamcha commented softly as to not wake the infant. Piccolo merely replied with a smirk, inviting him with a silent nod to rejoin him there on the couch. He gladly accepted, taking a seat next to his partner and looking forward to a moment of merciful peace.

 The peace looked as though it might have been ruined momentarily, as a lavender-haired toddler poked his head out from around the corner of the door at them. Both adults seemed to tense up immediately, dreading what the little monster intended to do next. Thankfully, he didn’t run in to disturb Goten again. His running around seemed to have finally worn him out, and he merely waddled forward and climbed up onto the couch next to Yamcha. He then rested his head against the man’s leg and settled in for what was apparently an impromptu nap time. Yamcha let his held breath out in a sigh of relief, leaning over just enough to rest his head against Piccolo’s shoulder.

 “We’re in way over our heads, aren’t we?” he whispered softly, the exhaustion of the past few minutes hitting him as even he found his eyelids drooping. He felt more than heard his lover give a light chuckle in response.

 “Yeah, but that’s okay. _All_ parents are in over their heads.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Soon enough, Bulma and Chi Chi returned home, each carrying several shopping bags in their arms as they walked through the door. What instantly struck them as they entered was the sound of utter silence – a confusing sound, for sure, as they’d both expected to come back to a scene of utter chaos. The two women then spotted their two victims, and a small smile spread across each of their faces.

 Both Piccolo and Yamcha were fast asleep on the couch, clearly worn out from the day. Goten was still held securely in Piccolo’s arm against his chest, the soft beating of the alien’s heart working wonders to keep him asleep as well. Trunks was still resting his head on Yamcha’s leg, a small blanket pulled over him as he napped along with the others. Bulma, unable to help herself, immediately pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, unsure if she wanted to use it as blackmail or just keep it because it was cute.

 “So, what do you think?” she asked softly once she’d gotten a good enough shot. Chi Chi gave her a nod of approval.

 “I think they’re ready.”


	18. A Labor of Love

 Piccolo let out a moan against his pillow, his hands grasping at the bedsheets. Yamcha watched as his lover arched his back at his every touch and movement, biting his lip to keep his outbursts a little quieter.

 “Th-this is okay, right? I’m not hurting you?” Yamcha asked nervously, but Piccolo immediately nodded his head eagerly.

 “I-I’m fine. Go a little harder,” he gasped out, clearly struggling to keep any semblance of composure. The former bandit was hesitant to do so, genuinely afraid of hurting Piccolo or their egg in the process, but he complied. He kneaded the heel of his palm against the middle of the Namekian’s back with a bit more force than before, eliciting an indescribable sound that his partner immediately stifled by slapping a hand over his own mouth, the hue of purple across his cheeks deepening slightly. Yamcha could barely hold in a small chuckle of amusement, though he was sure Piccolo was a little too distracted at the moment to take notice even if he hadn’t.

 “Jeez, this kid’s got you all tied up in knots. Does this really feel _that_ good?” he asked with a small smirk as he continued to massage his boyfriend’s back.

“Trust me, right now this feels a million times better than sex…” he groaned out, at which point Yamcha’s own cheeks heated up.

 “ _H-hey!_ ”

 “No offense, of course,” Piccolo added quickly, a smirk appearing across his own lips now.

 Once Piccolo had his fill of Yamcha’s tension-relieving touches, he seemed to collapse fully against the bed, panting lightly to catch his breath. Yamcha had taught himself to not freak out when his partner became so short of breath so easily. With how big the egg in his chest had gotten, his lung capacity was effectively halved at the moment, and it wasn’t unusual for him to become winded at the simplest of tasks. The former bandit merely sat there at his side, gently running a hand along the length of the Namekian’s back to further calm him.

 The past few days had gradually become hell for the poor guy. He could hardly get a decent night of sleep anymore, since he couldn’t for the life of him find a comfortable position to lie in. He used to eat a little when they had dinner together, but lately he couldn’t keep anything in his stomach. Even water seemed to make him nauseous. Most concerning of all were the sudden muscle spasms he was getting. Yamcha found himself having a small panic attack whenever Piccolo suddenly clutched painfully at his chest, only to feel as though he’d lost a year of his life to the stress of it all when it inevitably proved to be a false alarm minutes later.

 Dende had been by to check on them a day ago, and it seemed that the young healer’s predicted due date of ‘sometime in February’ was right on the money. The child guardian had told Yamcha to keep a close eye on Piccolo, warning that he could have the egg literally any day now. Yamcha couldn’t decide whether he wanted the whole ordeal over with as soon as possible, or if he wanted it to delay it for as long as possible. Given how Piccolo was feeling lately, however, he was now leaning heavily towards the ‘get it over with’ side, if only for his lover’s sake.

 “Hey, I’ll be right back, okay?” Yamcha said softly once Piccolo seemed able to relax for a rare moment. The Namekian merely replied with a barely-audible grunt of acknowledgement, clearly eager to take advantage of one of the few moments of relative comfort he could enjoy lately. Yamcha made sure not to mention that he was wandering downstairs to get something to eat. Just the mere mention of food tended to set off Piccolo’s gag reflex recently, and he didn’t want to do that to him now that he was finally able to get a few moments of rest. As he left the room, Yamcha leaned in close to where Puar was seated on the dresser.

 “Keep an eye on him, alright? Come get me if anything happens…” he whispered to her, to which she gave a definitive nod of her head. He then gave one last backward glance toward Piccolo before closing the door as quietly as possible behind him.

 Yamcha made his way downstairs, glad to be able to take a moment to himself. He didn’t mind caring for his partner like this, especially right now, but… Well, he’d never imagined the sort of stress and agony that all the waiting brought. He was sure it was much worse for Piccolo, but still…

 “Hey, how’s it going?”

 Yamcha damn near jumped right out of his skin when a voice addressed him out of nowhere as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He glanced around, soon spotting Bulma’s head peeking in from the foyer.

 “Wh-what the hell?! Jeez, you scared the shit outta me! How’d you even get in here? What, did you copy my house keys when I wasn’t looking?”

 Bulma replied with a playful grin, stepping into the hallway proper and clearly holding something behind her back.

 “Honestly, do you guys even _lock_ your door? I think you’re getting too used to living out in the middle of nowhere. I just walked right in.”

 Yamcha let out an embarrassed laugh at that. Honestly, she had a point. It didn’t help that he’d been so preoccupied with tending to Piccolo lately that locking the door was literally the last thing on his mind.

 “So… What are you doing all the way out here?”

 “Oh, well… You guys skipped out on my party yesterday, so I thought I’d swing by and see how things were going.”

 “O-oh, yeah… Sorry about that,” Yamcha apologized, scratching at the back of his head. “Piccolo’s been absolutely miserable lately. Sorry I didn’t call or anything…”

 “Oh no, that’s alright! I remember how I was the last couple of weeks before Trunks was born. I was an absolute bitch to deal with.”

 “I-I mean, he’s really not _that_ hard to deal with. I just kinda feel bad for him right now, y’know? He’s barely gotten any sleep over this past week.”

 “Yeah, I definitely understand that,” she replied with a knowing nod. “Well, I guess he wouldn’t be able to enjoy what I brought for you guys, then. Not until after he has his egg, at least.”

 Bulma then revealed what she’d been hiding behind her back, holding it out to him. It was a moderately sized heart-shaped box, the type that typically contained a variety of chocolates. Yamcha couldn’t help but tilt his head in mild confusion.

 “What’s this for?”

 “You’re kidding, right?” she asked, arching a brow at him. “You realize what today is, don’t you?”

 Yamcha furrowed his brow for a moment, genuinely confused before it suddenly dawned on him.

 “Ah man, you gotta be kidding me…” he replied mostly to himself. Well, this certainly wasn’t the most romantic Valentine’s Day the two of them had ever spent together, but he supposed he should have anticipated something like this. It was just his luck, after all. Bulma seemed to read his mind, letting out a small giggle.

 “Yeah, kids tend to have the most rotten timing when it comes to stuff like this. Welcome to parenthood, buddy.”

 “Yeah, well… What about _you?_ You’re married, but you came all the way out here instead of spending the night with your husband?”

 Bulma replied with a small scoff, rolling her eyes at the question.

 “Please, you really expect Vegeta to be the type to take me out for a date night? Nah, he’s off training or something. He couldn’t care less for holidays like this. Honestly, it’s more entertaining to come see how you two are faring than just sitting at home alone.”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but let out a nervous chuckle at that.

 “Y-yeah, well… I think the most exciting thing that could happen here wouldn’t be the sort of thing you’d like to watch…”

 “I mean, at least the way Namekians have babies isn’t quite as gross as humans do it,” she replied with a shrug of her shoulders. Yamcha couldn’t help but arch a brow at her.

 “Wait… You sound like you’re talking from experience here. When did you ever see a Namekian have an egg?”

 “Back when the survivors from Namek crashed at our place for like a year, of course,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I think there were three that were pregnant while they stayed at Capsule Corp., and two of them were willing to let my dad and I observe when they had their eggs. I mean, it wasn’t exactly _pretty_ , but it was an interesting thing to be able to learn about.”

 “Huh…” Yamcha replied, hesitating slightly as he considered whether it would be acceptable to ask his next question. “So, uhhh… S-so, what’s it like?”

 “Are you serious?” Bulma asked with a slight smirk. “You didn’t think to ask anyone about that until _now?_ ”

 Yamcha couldn’t stop the light blush from spreading across his cheeks, averting his gaze from her as though trying to avoid a bit of his shame.

 “L-look, that’s a really awkward thing to ask someone, especially _after_ you’ve already gotten them pregnant, y’know?”

 Bulma couldn’t help but giggle at him a bit, but she did eventually answer his original question.

 “Alright, I’ll have mercy on you just this once. Have you ever seen a video of a snake trying to eat an egg?”

 “Uuuhhh… Maybe once or twice?”

 “Well, if you reverse the video and speed it up a bit, you’ve pretty much got a good idea of what it’ll be like for a Namekian to have an egg. But, I mean… If I know you like I _think_ I know you, you’ll still be freaking out the whole time just because it’s Piccolo and your own kid.”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but let out a small whimper upon hearing that.

 “Y-you’re really not instilling me with a ton of confidence here…”

 Bulma couldn’t help but snicker at his misery, but eventually let up a bit on her teasing to offer him some small reassurance.

 “You’ll be fine, trust me. This is legitimately the hardest part. Once you get to the actual ‘being a dad’ part, you’ll do great!”

 “Th-thanks…” he replied meekly, a light blush returning to his cheeks. “I certainly hope you’re right…”

 “Of _course_ I’m right! When have I ever _not_ been right? You might be going in the wrong order, but you’re eager enough and willing to learn!”

 “H-hold on… What do you mean, ‘I’m going in the wrong order?’” he asked, genuinely confused. Bulma couldn’t help but arch a brow at that, setting her hands on her hips.

 “Oh, I seem to remember a _certain someone_ boasting about how when _he_ has a kid, he was at least going to be responsible and be _married_ first.”

 Yamcha let out a small groan at that, his shoulders slumping slightly. God, why’d she have to go and bring that up? That was what he’d said towards the end of their discussion – or, rather, _argument_ – when she’d first told him she was pregnant with Vegeta’s child. It had all gotten rather heated, as one may expect, ending in them shouting at one another and him storming out of the house.

 Despite bringing up a rather unpleasant memory, he had to admit that she was right. Yamcha hadn’t even thought of that. Honestly, the two of them had just been living together as though they were married already, though the idea never seemed to occur to either of them in all that time. He blushed lightly at the thought, scratching at the back of his head.

 “I-I guess we just kinda forgot about all that. You think I should ask him?”

 “Of fucking _course_ you should! Hell, I was half expecting you to do that at the masquerade. I thought I did a good job of setting all that up, but I guess there was no accounting for that bomb Piccolo dropped on you,” she replied, giving him a small wink. Yamcha couldn’t help but stare at her with wide eyes at that. Wait, did she really set up that entire party just to manipulate him into proposing to Piccolo? He was honestly unsure whether he should feel grateful or creeped out by his ex doing something like that.

 “Speaking of which…” she continued, “I think maybe you can afford to wait a little bit longer to pop the question, given the circumstances. I’m guessing Piccolo’s not exactly in a fit state to have that conversation right now.”

 Yamcha opened his mouth to agree, but stopped short when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. A ball of fur floated through the air down the stairs, moving so fast it was practically a little blue blur. Only when it reached him did it slow down enough for him to register it as a panicking Puar.

 “Y-Yamcha! Come quick! I think Piccolo’s having the egg!”

 That statement alone was enough to throw Yamcha into an absolute panic. Whatever mental preparation he’d done for this moment flew right out the window, and he found himself at a complete loss as to what to do. In his desperation, he found himself looking back at Bulma, silently begging with his eyes for her to help him. She seemed to understand right away, though she rolled her eyes at him a bit.

 “Oh, don’t be such a baby about it! Come on!” she grumbled out, taking hold of his wrist and dragging him up the stairs.

 Once the three of them returned to the master bedroom, they found Piccolo practically curled up in a painful ball on the bed, one hand clutching at the fabric of his shirt over his chest, the other clamped securely over his mouth. Yamcha could already tell this was different than all the false alarms they’d been through, and the realization that it was really happening this time left him all but paralyzed to do anything. Luckily Bulma had no such problem, immediately throwing off her coat and rolling up her sleeves as she made her way over to the side of the bed, completely ready to take charge of the situation.

 “C’mon, Piccolo, up you get…” she said softly as she directed the gravid Namekian to get up onto his hands and knees. Piccolo wasn’t in a state to argue, doing as he was told despite having an unexpected guest there during such an emasculating event. Yamcha could see his partner’s arms tremble under him from the pain as Bulma instructed him on how to breathe. Shit, this was really happening, wasn’t it?

 “Hey!” Bulma barked out at him suddenly, snapping him out of his daze. He glanced up from where he was just staring at his ailing lover, meeting her glaring gaze. “You’ve literally got _one_ job, and it’s the easiest one here! Now get your ass over here!”

 Yamcha hesitated a step before making his way around to the other side of the bed. He knelt on the edge next to Piccolo, resting an unsure hand on the Namekian’s own. Almost immediately, he felt the other’s fingers clamp down so hard around his hand that he let out a small yelp. Yep, he definitely wouldn’t be getting out of this without at least a broken hand, that was for sure. Still, he tried his best to ignore it, knowing that what Piccolo was going through was a million times worse. All he really had to do was try not to wince whenever his partner reflexively squeezed his hand.

 After a few minutes, Piccolo’s labored panting cut off abruptly, giving way to an uncomfortable silence. After such silence went on a little longer that Yamcha would have liked, he leaned over a bit to see if his partner was okay. He was quite caught off-guard by what he saw, genuinely unprepared for the huge watermelon-sized bulge in his lover’s throat. His eyes widened almost in horror. Holy shit, he had no idea the egg would be _that_ big! He quickly straightened up once more and averted his gaze, a weak whimper escaping him. He could practically feel Bulma rolling her eyes at him, but she held herself back from commenting at his reaction, instead focusing on the task at hand.

 “You’re doing great, Piccolo. Almost there…” she assured softly, rubbing a hand gently across his broad back. Yamcha was man enough to admit that he was too much of a coward to watch to moment of truth, instead focusing on some random spot on the ceiling and trying to convince himself not to freak out. Soon enough, he heard Piccolo draw in a deep gasp of air into his oxygen-starved lungs, his grip on the former bandit’s hand finally letting up a little.

 Yamcha decided that perhaps that meant it was safe to look, finally glancing down once more. Piccolo seemed completely drained of energy from the ordeal, his body dripping in sweat, his arms and legs looking as though they would give out under his weight at any second. He drew in deep, ragged breaths, clearly eager to take advantage of the fact that his lungs were no longer being compressed by the egg he’d held in his chest for the past five months. Speaking of which…

 Yamcha glanced down at the bed directly underneath Piccolo, where now there rested a large pearl-white egg. He was almost surprised to find that the surface seemed perfectly smooth an undamaged by the ordeal it had just been through. After all, Piccolo was not a weak individual by any means, and with how much effort he’d put into birthing the thing, he would have guessed the egg might have suffered at least a crack or two. As it stood, he was relieved to find the surface unbroken.

 “T-take it…” Piccolo managed to get out in barely a whisper, his voice strained and haggard. Yamcha wasn’t sure what he meant at first, but soon thought he understood. He reached out and, as gently as he could, cradled their egg in his hands and moved it out from under his lover. Only when the egg was safely in his care did Piccolo allow himself to collapse fully onto the mattress below, utterly exhausted.

 “H-hey! A-are you okay?” Yamcha asked in a panic, holding the egg close to his chest as he leaned over to check on his lover. He then shot Bulma a questioning look, as though begging her to tell him that everything was alright. Luckily, she answered his questioning stare with a beaming smile.

“He’s fine. He’s just tired, is all,” she explained calmly. “Let him rest and he’ll be back to normal in no time, I’m sure of it.”

 Yamcha let out a sigh of relief at that, though he still had to look down at Piccolo to ensure he was still breathing to fully dismiss his worst fears. With that panic-inducing moment past, he diverted his attention down to the egg resting securely in his arms.

 It was still covered in a slick, almost transparent substance, though that was easily wiped away. Bulma was right – the way Namekians had kids was nowhere near as messy as the way humans did it, and he was grateful for that much, at least. The surface of the egg’s shell was not perfectly smooth as glass as he’d expected just by looking at it, but slightly textured. He ran his fingers gently across its surface, feeling the subtle bumps and divots that were all but invisible to his naked eye. Most surprising of all, however, was what he felt inside. He could barely sense it, but there was the tiniest ki he’d ever felt already pulsing away just beneath the shell. On a whim, he reached out with his own energy, taking care not to let his ki flare too much. Much to his surprise, the tiny ki within the egg flared back slightly.

 Yamcha could feel his heart skip a beat upon feeling that impossibly small energy reach out to him. The child was still several months away from truly being born, but already he felt like he was holding their baby in his arms. He couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his lips as he stroked the surface of the egg gently, feeling as the miniscule weight shifted slightly within.

 “Hey there, kiddo…”


	19. The Emperor's Folly

 "You sure you're up for this?" Yamcha asked as he tightened the knot of his belt over his bright orange gi, staring across the snow-covered field at his partner. Piccolo was dressed in his own purple gi for the first time in half a year, and was currently stretching out his shoulder muscles in preparation for a sparring match.

 "After having to sit around on my ass for nearly six months? Trust me, I'm _more_ than up for this," he replied with a slight smirk, though Yamcha couldn't help but notice that he didn't bother wearing his weighted turban or cape for his first match back to martial arts training. He knew his limits, and it was clear that he intended to ease himself back into their normal routine, especially since it had only been three weeks since he had their egg. Still, that didn't mean the former bandit could go easy on him. Quite to the contrary, anything less than Yamcha's absolute best effort would be seen as an insult by the proud Namekian warrior. The only thing close to holding back he would be allowed to do was to avoid striking him in the chest for a while yet.

 Neither of them needed to ask if the other was ready, as they both simultaneously dropped into a fighting stance. Their eyes fixed on one another before they dashed forward with blinding speed, meeting in the center of the field to trade powerful blows.

 

* * *

 

 

 "I dunno, your highness, this seems like a really stupid plan..." Shu whimpered out as he peeked out over the top of the bush he was hiding behind, watching with no shortage of trepidation as the two warriors sparred out in the nearby field. "Are you sure we wanna do this?"

 "Of _course_ I'm sure! We wouldn't be out here if I wasn't sure!" Pilaf barked back defensively, though he couldn't hide the slight unease in his eyes as he, too, watched the two insanely powerful men duking it out nearby. "That Bulma woman is the only person on the planet that has a dragon radar, and since breaking into Capsule Corp. and stealing it isn't going to happen anytime soon, we've got to find some way to get her to _give_ it to us!"

 Mai, who was still surveying the area with a pair of binoculars, nodded her head in agreement.

 "I've tracked her car coming out here several times in the past few months, and she usually brings her son along with her. Surely that must mean that she's rather close to these two, and hopefully that's a link we can exploit."

 "B-but... You guys know who that _is_ don't you?" Shu stammered out nervously, nodding his head in Piccolo's general direction. "Th-that's the Demon King Piccolo! How the hell are we gonna exploit anything to do with _that_ guy? He can vaporize us in an instant if he wanted to! He nearly killed us the last time we saw him, and we were working _for_ him then!"

 "Which is why we aren't even going to mess with him until we have a bargaining chip! Look over there!" the blue imp retorted, pointing over towards the large manor across the field from them. "We'll sneak into there while they're distracted and find something we could use against him. Some dirt we can use to blackmail him, or something valuable to hold for ransom, I don't care! Whatever it is, we'll agree to give it back to him _only_ if he gets the radar from Bulma and gives it to us. We don't even have to be face to face with him for that! It's so foolproof, even you two dolts can't possibly fuck it up!"

 Shu looked out at where his master was pointing, his tail immediately tucking between his legs and his ears folding back against his head.

 "Th-that place looks like it's haunted..."

 "Oh, don't be such a goddamned scaredy cat! We're going in there whether you like it or not! Now let's get going while they're still busy out here!"

 The canine ninja didn't get a chance to argue any further, as Pilaf grabbed hold of the back of his shirt and dragged him off through the woods towards the ominous looking mansion.

 

* * *

 

 

 The three of them eventually made it around to the mansion without being seen, and now stood in the looming shadow of the massive abode. Shu felt a chill run up his spine as he stared up at it.

 "I've got a bad feeling about this, boss..." he whined, letting out a small dog-like whimper. Pilaf responded with an exacerbated growl.

 "Yeah, well if bad feelings were pork loins and rice, then we wouldn't have to find the dragon balls, now would we? Now get your ass over there and open that door!"

 Shu did as he was told, reluctantly making his way over to the massive wooden doors of the house. He couldn't help but shiver as he stared up at the two lion-headed brass knockers. Why'd they have to look like they were glaring right down at him? He tried not to look at them, instead focusing on the doorknob above his head. He reached up to give it a hopeful turn, but unfortunately found it to be locked. He let out an annoyed grumble, producing a lock pick and a small knife from a pouch on his belt. After about a minute of fiddling, he heard a click, at which point his ears perked up victoriously.

 “I got it!” he announced in triumph, waving the other two over. Pilaf and Mai dashed over and the three soon found themselves standing in the dark foyer of the mansion.

 Shu trembled lightly as he glanced around, the dated Victorian décor not lending much to disproving his theory that the place was haunted.

 “Why do I feel like we just stepped into the setting for an Amnesia game?”

 “Oh, quit your bitching! There’s nothing in here that can hurt us while those two are outside!” Pilaf retorted. “Now start looking for something we can use! And stick together so we don’t get lost!”

 Shu let out another whimper, but nodded and followed his emperor’s orders. The three made their way slowly through the ground floor of the mansion, coming up regrettably empty-handed. Not even the impressive library, with its collection of lost tomes and recreated artefacts, managed to produce anything they could use as leverage against the dreaded Demon King. Well, nothing they could _read_ , anyway. Most of the books in there were written in some language none of them had ever seen before.

 Only when they moved on to the upstairs portion did they reach some rooms that looked like they may yield something useful. Pilaf took particular interest in what had to be the master bedroom, which also happened to be one of the most lived-in rooms they’d come across thus far. The blue imp tore through the dressers and closet, but alas came away empty-handed.

 After finding nothing in the demon’s own bedroom, their search grew more desperate. The three of them split up to search the next hall, each of them choosing a different room to search. The other two had already disappeared into their room of choice, but Shu hesitated before the next door. The entire time they’d been searching the house, he’d gotten the distinct feeling that they were being watched. He felt like they were being played, that they had only progressed as far as they had because someone – or some _thing_ – had allowed it. When would they cross the line that they weren’t supposed to? When would that mysterious presence finally intervene?

 It seemed as though Shu was destined to find out the answer to that question. He reached out to open the door he stood before, letting it swing open. What stood directly on the opposite side of the threshold turned his blood to ice in an instant. He just barely managed to stifle a yelp as he slammed the door closed once more, scrambling backwards until his back hit the opposite wall. The other two heard the commotion he made out there in the hall, scrambling out to see what was going on.

 “What’s the matter? What happened? Did you find something?” Mai asked in concern. Shu could hardly do more than point a shaking digit at the closed door before him, his words coming out in terrified, broken stammers.

 “B-big… Sh-shadow… _Th-thing!_ ” he whimpered out in wide-eyed horror. “I-I _told_ you this place was haunted!”

 Both Pilaf and Mai flinched upon hearing that, joining Shu in staring at the closed door in horror.

 “W-well Mai, g-go on! Ch-check it out!” Pilaf ordered, to which his lieutenant let out a small yelp.

 “ _M-me?!_ Why do _I_ have to do it?”

 “Because I _told_ you to! Now go do it!”

 Mai swallowed at the lump in her throat before slinking her way cautiously over to the door, reaching out with a trembling hand to slowly turn the knob. Once she heard it unlatch, she quickly pulled the door open just a few inches, though she immediately looked away and snapped her eyes shut as though afraid she would be attacked. When she wasn’t instantly murdered, she cracked open one eye and dared to peek inside. As soon as she did, all of the tension seemed to drain from her body, and she let out an exacerbated sigh as she shot Shu a withering glare.

 “Are you serious?” she groaned out, at which point Pilaf grew brave enough to go have a look himself. He, too, soon glared back at his canine minion.

 “Seriously, Shu?! You see what all that talk of hauntings did?! You’re so paranoid you’re literally jumping at shadows!”

 “B-but… I could have sworn I saw…” Shu stammered out, though now that the others investigated and found nothing, he was starting to doubt his own eyes. Maybe he really was seeing things…

"Wait..." Pilaf said, taking another quick peek into the room. "I think we just found something we can use!"

 Shu perked his ears up at that, picking himself up off the floor and making his way over to the door. He poked his head in to have a look at what his master was talking about. The room looked to be a small nursery of some sort, complete with an infant's crib tucked away in one corner and a few stuffed animals here and there. He could barely see in the dim light of the room, but there seemed to be something inside the crib, something white and shaped sort of like a...

 Shu immediately pulled his head out of the room, staring back at his master as though he'd just ordered him to jump into an active volcano.

 “With all due respect, sir… _Are you out of your mind?!_ Are you _really_ suggesting that we steal one of King Piccolo’s eggs?!”

 “This doesn’t seem like his typical minion, your highness…” Mai added, clearly having seen the interior of the room for herself. “He doesn’t usually put forth this much effort for one of his mutated minions, and they normally hatch immediately after he spits out their eggs… This is something different. This might even be his honest-to-goodness child!”

 “All the more reason for us to take it!” Pilaf retorted, clearly determined to continue on his chosen path. “A simple minion wouldn’t be a real bargaining chip. He can create as many of those as he wants, so long as it doesn’t cut into his life-force too much. But his _child?_ Oh, that’s something that he can’t _help_ but protect! And unlike an _actual_ baby, we don’t have to take care of this brat while it’s still in the egg! It’s _perfect!_ ”

 “Okay, let me get this straight…” Shu began slowly, shaking his head in disbelief. “You want us to kidnap an unborn Demon Prince and hold him for ransom against the Demon King himself?! I’m sorry, sir, but that’s just… That’s absolutely _moronic!_ ”

 “Bah!” Pilaf dismissed the canine’s arguments with a wave of his hand. “All this fuss over the so-called ‘Demon King!’ It won’t matter once we get the dragon balls! After all, what is a king compared to a god?!”

  _‘And what is a god to a non-believer?’_

 All three members of the Pilaf gang seemed to freeze dead at the unexpected interjection. That voice, barely more than a hoarse whisper, clearly belonged to none of them. It seemed to originate from somewhere behind them, but when they turned, they saw nothing. Pilaf couldn’t hide his terrified trembling, though he immediately turned to glare at Shu – the only other person in the hall that could have produced a male voice such as that which they’d just heard.

 “Sh-Shu! Was that you?!” the blue imp barked out, to which Shu couldn’t help but shake his head emphatically.

 “N-n-no, sir! I tried to tell you before – this place is fuckin’ _haunted!_ ”

 “E-enough of this nonsense!” Pilaf retorted, though he didn’t attempt to deny the canine’s claim this time. “Mai! Go in there and grab that egg so we can get the hell out of here!”

 “ _M-me?!_ Why me again?!”

 “Because you’re the only one tall enough to reach into the crib! Now get going!”

 Mai opened her mouth to retort, but found that she couldn’t come up with anything to counter that argument. With a reluctant groan, she softly pushed open the door and made her way inside.

 “’You should join a military,’ mom said… ‘It’ll be a good experience for you,’ mom said…” she grumbled under her breath to herself as she inched her way across the room. “Bet you’re proud of me now, huh? Sneaking into a haunted mansion to steal the unborn baby of a demon. Yep, pinnacle of my career, right here…”

 Finally, after she was done bitching to herself about the current state of her life, Mai found herself standing over the crib, staring down into it. The egg itself was resting in the center, and she could already feel a mild heat coming from the crib itself. It must have had some heating element built into it to keep the egg warm while its parents weren’t tending to it, she supposed.

 She leaned forward over the railing, reaching down with both hands to retrieve their stolen bargaining chip. Before she touched the shell, however, she spotted something nestled just behind it that made her stop abruptly. It was a small blue cat, curled up and purring lightly as it slept, clearly taking advantage of the gentle warmth the crib emanated. If it had been any normal cat, Mai would have just taken the egg and not worried about disturbing it. However, as luck would have it, she realized that she recognized this one. It was one of the little changeling creatures that accompanied Goku and Bulma the first time they crossed paths with the Pilaf gang. Actually, now that she thought of it, that man outside who was sparring with Piccolo was there as well…

 “Mai, what the hell is taking you so long?! Just grab it!” Pilaf bellowed, to which Mai could only urgently hold her finger in front of her lips in a desperate bid to shut the miniscule monarch up before he woke the cat. By some miracle, the deceptively cute-looking creature hardly twitched at the outburst. Mai let out the breath she’d been holding in a sigh of relief. At least it was a heavy sleeper.

 Mai reached in once more, grabbing the egg on either side and, using utmost care to not accidentally knock into the cat and wake it up, she lifted it up out of the crib. Once she was clear, she turned to face Pilaf and Shu, holding out their ill-gotten prize. A wide grin spread across Pilaf’s face, and he reached up to snatch the egg from her hands.

 “Perfect! Now we just have to get this thing back to our home base and send out the ransom!” the imp announced triumphantly, trying his best to keep his voice down. Shu, for his part, was relieved that everything seemed to be going according to plan, despite the strange occurrences happening around that creepy old mansion. At least, that’s what he thought until he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

 Shu glanced over towards the crib just in time to watch as a thin tendril of what looked like dark black smoke seemed to snake its way through the bars from somewhere behind it, the tip hovering dangerously close to the sleeping feline. He slapped a paw over his mouth to stifle a startled yelp, pointing shakily with the other towards the apparition. The other two looked to see what he was freaking out about, but could do nothing but watch as the tendril jabbed like a spear against the rump of the tiny changeling.

 “ _Yow!_ ” Puar shouted, suddenly leaping up to float in the air, rubbing at her backside where she’d been struck. She looked around for a moment to try to find what could have done such a thing, soon locking eyes with the three intruders, the smallest of whom held her masters’ egg in his arms.

 “ _H-hey!_ You put that down right now!” she squeaked out, trying her best to sound intimidating. Whether it worked or not was anyone’s guess, as the only response Pilaf could manage either way was to turn tail and run out of the room, Shu and Mai following closely behind.

 When they were halfway down the hall, the imp chanced a look back over his shoulder, and what he saw pulled a startled yelp out of him. They were no longer being pursued by a tiny floating cat. Instead, a full-grown tiger was barreling down the hall towards them and gaining on them quickly, its razor-sharp teeth bared threateningly. At the rate they were going, they’d be in the beast’s jaws in seconds.

 Suddenly, Emperor Pilaf came to a skidding halt. Wait, what the hell was he running for? They’d come looking for some leverage to use against Bulma and her allies, so why not use it? He turned on his heel to face the monstrous feline with a newfound confidence, holding the egg up above his head.

 “Stop right there or I’ll smash it!!” he threatened, at which point Puar stopped dead in her tracks. She stared at the group for a long moment, eyes darting from them to the egg and back to them again, clearly unsure what to do. Then, she turned tail and ran, turning into the next hallway and out of sight. Pilaf let a victorious grin spread across his lips. It was already working better than he had planned!

 “Alright, let’s get out of here!”

 

* * *

 

 

 Puar came to a stop only when she was sure she was out of earshot of the three intruders, transforming back into her normal form. She then took a deep breath, shouting out as loud as she dared, hoping it was enough to get Piccolo’s attention.

 “P-Piccolo! Come quick! Someone’s stealing your egg!”

  

* * *

 

 

 “ _Stop!_ ”

 Yamcha wasn’t prepared for the abrupt command, stumbling forward in the middle of throwing a punch and nearly tumbling into the snow. Once he got his feet under him again, he looked up to his partner with his brows furrowed in confusion. Piccolo was staring off towards the mansion, his eyes wide in what almost looked like fear. He lingered for but a moment, soon taking off at full sprint back towards their home.

 “Hey, what’s wrong?” Yamcha asked, immediately following after him. Piccolo didn’t answer, but the urgency in his every move was unmistakable. The former bandit could feel the panic building up inside of him. He couldn’t think of anything that would make his lover act this way other than something to do with their egg…

 Unfortunately, his fears were confirmed when they reached the mansion. Just as they got there, they spotted three figures rushing out of the front door, the smallest among them carrying a large egg in his arms.

 “ _Hey!_ Where the hell do you think you’re going with that?!” he shouted out, to which the three thieves turned to look at him in surprise.

 “Th-that’s far enough!” Pilaf retorted hesitantly once he noticed that Piccolo himself was chasing after them. “Come any closer and I swear I’ll destroy this thing!”

 The threat hit home, and just like Puar before, the two of them found themselves paralyzed to advance any further. Yamcha watched with his teeth grit in helpless anger as the little blue imp gave a taunting chuckle.

 “Hahahaha! You fools! Soon you will all bow to the great Emperor Pilaf!” he bellowed out before turning his attention towards his minions. “Mai, get the mech ready!”

 “Yessir!” she replied, quickly retrieving a capsule from her coat pocket. She clicked the button and threw it to the ground, and in a burst of smoke a large bipedal mech appeared. The three of them climbed into it in a flash, the stolen egg clutched tightly in one of its large claws.

 “Alright, now listen up!” came the diminutive emperor’s voice through the mech’s speakers. “Unless you want this kid turned into scrambled eggs, you’ll get your friend Bulma to bring us her dragon radar right now!”

 “Uhh, boss? Shouldn’t we ask for more? Like… money, or something?”

 “Shut up, Shu! I know what I’m doing!”

 As their opponents bickered, Yamcha chanced a glance over towards his partner. Piccolo was glaring as intensely as ever at the bastards that had stolen their unborn child, and it was quite clear that the only reason they were still alive was because they still had the egg in their grasp. Still, Yamcha could practically see the Namekian’s mind working at a million miles an hour, trying to devise some way to get it back safely.

 “Yamcha…” he began in a surprisingly calm tone. “When I give you the signal, I need you to run as fast as you can and catch the egg…”

 Yamcha flinched slightly at that suggestion, though he could tell that his lover was deadly serious at the moment. He was almost afraid to ask what he was planning, but knew that he wouldn’t be getting much more explanation than that. All he could do was focus on their opponents, wait for whatever signal he was supposed to react to, and get ready to run as fast as he’d ever run in his life.

 “ _Now,_ ” Piccolo called out just loud enough for him to hear. Yamcha didn’t waste any time trying to see what his partner was doing, instead taking off at full sprint towards the enemy mech. The three intruders were momentarily too stunned by the sudden action to think to react, and in that moment a beam of energy shot out from somewhere behind him and cleanly severed the mech’s arm from its body. Yamcha felt a wave of panic hit him as he watched their egg fly from the mechanical claw. He pushed as much power into his legs as he could, running faster than he ever had before. Even so, he didn’t know if he’d be able to make it. At the last second, he dove forward, just barely grasping the egg against his chest before his back hit the ground.

 The rest of the world may as well have disappeared at that moment, as Yamcha found himself single-mindedly concerned with the wellbeing of their egg. He checked the shell for cracks, and was somewhat relieved to find that there were none. The tiny ki emanating from it pulsed in what he could only describe as panic, the infant within shifting around unhappily. Well, at least it was alive, though whether it was uninjured would have to be determined once they got Dende there to check it out.

 “Wh-what?! How did you—?!” Pilaf stammered out in horror as he stared down at his mech’s severed stump of an arm. No, this wasn’t how this was supposed to go! He had the perfect bargaining position! How could he lose it just like that?! With nothing left to ensure his survival against what was surely an absolutely livid Demon King, he slammed on his vehicle’s thrusters, rocketing the mech high into the air in an attempt to escape.

 Alas, there was no escaping from the ire they’d raised. Within seconds, they heard and felt something slam into the top of the mech, the force of the impact denting the thick metal of the cabin. A moment later, they watched as claws pierced the metal and ripped the mech open as though it was a ball made of tissue paper. The three let out a yelp as they stared up into the rage-filled eyes of Piccolo himself, grasping at each other in a panic as the demon opened his mouth and unleashed a torrent of energy not unlike a dragon letting loose a huge blast of fire.

  

* * *

 

 

 “And that’s what happened,” Yamcha concluded his story with an exacerbated sigh.

 “W-wow… Jeez, I can’t imagine how stressful that must have been for you guys…” Bulma replied. She’d come by earlier while he was gone to retrieve Dende – not an entirely unexpected visit by any means, but Yamcha had to admit he’d forgotten about her coming over with all the excitement of the day. “So, did they get away?”

 “Yeah, as angry as Piccolo was – and hot damn, I’ve _never_ seen him so pissed – he decided to let them live. He said he didn’t want to start our kid’s life off by shedding blood over it. They managed to eject some sort of escape pod out of their mech and got away. I don’t think they’ll be trying that stunt again anytime soon, though.”

 “Well, I’m impressed by his self-control, then. If I was in that situation, I’m not sure those creeps would have left here alive. How’s he holding up, by the way?”

 “You kidding? He hasn’t let the egg out of his sight since. He was already super protective over it before, but now he’s gone into full mama bear mode. I’m pretty sure he’d castrate anyone who so much as _looks_ at it too hard right now.”

 Bulma let out a light chuckle at that.

 “Now _that_ sounds a little more like the Piccolo I know.”

 At that moment, the two of them spotted Dende making his way down the stairs. Yamcha immediately jumped up to his feet from where he’d been seated on the couch, clearly eager for whatever news the child guardian had to offer. Thankfully, the young Namekian offered him a reassuring smile.

 “The baby seems to be just fine. I can’t sense any injuries, though it seems a bit scared by everything that happened. Just keep an eye on it and stay close to it for a while and everything should be okay.”

 “Oh, thank Kami… or, err… thank _you_ , I suppose,” he replied, letting out a huge sigh of relief. He then stared upwards towards the ceiling in the direction he sensed his partner’s energy. He could sense Piccolo still in the nursery, holding their egg close in his arms. Staying close to it clearly wouldn’t be a problem, but it was clear that they’d be postponing their return to training together for a while yet.


	20. What's in a Name?

 Yamcha kept a slow and steady pace as he made his way up the stairs, being careful not to spill the contents of the two glasses he carried in each hand. It took all his self-control to resist the urge to go running up the stairs. It wouldn’t have made any difference either way. The process of hatching an egg was a lot slower and easier than having one, or so Piccolo assured him. At the rate things were going, he wasn’t going to miss anything important by taking his time.

 Within a few minutes, Yamcha made his way back to their bedroom, pushing the door open with the back of his shoulder. Piccolo glanced up from where he sat on their bed, giving him a soft smile. Their egg rested in his lap, a large crack snaking halfway across its surface.

 “How you holding up?” Yamcha asked as he made his way around to the other side of the bed, holding out one of the glasses of water for his partner to take. Piccolo accepted it and took a brief moment to take a drink before giving his reply.

 “Fine. Not much changed since you went downstairs, though the baby’s been moving around a lot inside. It shouldn’t be too much longer now.”

 “Good. I think all this waiting’s about to kill me,” Yamcha replied with a light chuckle. He set his own glass down on the bedside dresser, taking a seat next to his partner. Without having to exchange words, Piccolo carefully passed the egg to him, letting it rest in the crook of Yamcha’s crossed legs. The Namekian then took the opportunity to get up and stretch a bit, having sat there watching over their egg for the last several hours.

 Yamcha couldn’t help but trace a finger gently along the thin crack in the shell, feeling as the baby kicked and shifted around inside. He wanted so badly to help their child break out of the egg, but Piccolo had already told him that they had to wait for there to be a large enough gap for them to slip their fingers inside before they could do that. Breaking the shell open from the outside would be too dangerous, so it looked like the kid was on their own for now.

 “Y’know… even after all this time, I still don’t think we’ve prepared enough… I keep thinking we’ve forgotten to do something extremely important.”

 “Well…” Piccolo began as he returned to his spot next to Yamcha on the bed. “That’s because we _have_ neglected something very important.”

 Yamcha drew in a small gasp at that. Wait, they’d _really_ forgotten to do something?! Here he just thought he was being overly paranoid! What could they have possibly forgotten to do?! Luckily for him, Piccolo seemed to pick up on his lover’s internal questioning, answering with an amused smirk.

 “As I recall, we’ve not yet bothered to discuss what we intend to _name_ the child.”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but blink in confusion upon hearing that. Wait, they _hadn’t?_ How could they have not talked about that until now? Yet, as he thought back through the past nine or so months, he realized that the subject had never come up. He couldn’t help but blush lightly in embarrassment, running his fingers through his short ponytail nervously.

 “Ah, geez… Way to put it off to the last minute, huh?” he joked lightly with a nervous laugh. “I haven’t even thought about that… But wouldn’t we need to know if it’s a boy or a girl first? Dende never said which one it would be.”

 “Well, that’s the tricky part…” Piccolo replied with a small sigh. “Since it’s half Namekian, the issue of determining its gender is going to be a little tough. It could come out the same as any other Namekian and it would technically be both male and female. In that case, whatever we treat it as would be acceptable, and they’d likely take on the human behaviors of whichever gender we refer to it as. I was raised as a male, so that’s how I behave. Of course, there’s also the possibility that it could be born with any combination of human sex traits, so I think we’ll really only know for sure once the kid starts to hit puberty. In the end… I suppose it’s sort of up to the child themselves to decide what they want to go by.”

 “Great…” Yamcha groaned out. “So how are we supposed to come up with a name they won’t hate if we won’t really know what gender they are until they’re a teenager?”

 To that, Piccolo couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle.

 “I should think the answer would be obvious. We simply choose a name that could work for either a boy or a girl.”

 Oh, well, that _was_ a simple answer, wasn’t it? Yamcha hadn’t even thought of that. Of course, now that it was mentioned, he couldn’t for the life of him think of any name that would be acceptable for both genders.

 “So, uhhh… I don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas? I’m kinda drawing a blank here…”

 “Actually, there is one I’ve been thinking of…” Piccolo began, his eyes staring idly down at the bed covers into nothingness as often happened when he was recalling something from his formerly forgotten life. “Back in Russia in my day, a common name for a boy was Yuri. In fact, the first human to be sent into space was a cosmonaut by the name of Yuri Gagarin, and he was something of a hero in the Soviet Union after his groundbreaking orbit of the Earth. However, in Japan – which happens to be the nation much of your own culture descends from – Yuri was a common name for a girl. I think perhaps a name like that would work just fine. Well… If that sounds alright to _you_.”

 Yamcha thought it over for a moment, taking time to imagine himself referring to a son as Yuri, then doing the same with a daughter. He found that he quite liked it either way.

 “Hey, sounds good to me! Better than any idea I could come up with, at least.”

 “Alright, then it’s settled,” Piccolo replied, a somewhat relieved smile spreading across his face. “Yuri Rekishiyoma it is, then.”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but blush lightly upon hearing that.

 “W-wait, we’re giving it _my_ last name?! F-for real?!” he asked, unable to hide his elation at the suggestion. Piccolo gave him another soft chuckle.

 “Of course. You’re the father, after all. Isn’t that the human tradition; to give the child the family name of the father?”

 “Y-yeah, but… What about _your_ traditions?”

 “You needn’t worry about that. Namekian traditions simply dictate that you have one unique name given to you by your parents, and the only thing close to a last name you have is that of your clan. For example, Dende’s full name would simply be Dende of the Dragon Clan. It wouldn’t fit very well here on Earth, I don’t think.”

 “But what about your adoptive family? You always seemed so proud to be one of them…”

 Piccolo’s expression seemed to grow more somber at that.

 “The Scherbakovs died out nearly a thousand years ago, and I have not been ‘Ivan’ for a very long time. As much as my mother raised me as an equal within the family, loving me as she would her own flesh and blood, I clearly didn’t belong. I was just a visitor among them. I think it’s for the best that I leave their legacy to rest…

 “Besides,” he continued, clearly trying his best to lighten the mood after that sobering turn in subject, “You are the only family I need now. Well… you and Yuri. Because of all that, it seems only fitting that I take the name Rekishiyoma for myself. In fact, I would be quite honored if you allowed me to do so.”

 Yamcha’s blush only grew more intense at that, and he couldn’t help but stare up at his partner in utter shock.

 “A-are you serious? B-but, shouldn’t we be married for that?”

 To that, Piccolo merely shook his head.

 “At this point, is there really any need? Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than willing to go through with a ceremony if you really want one, but I don’t need some piece of paper and a pair of rings to show that I fully intend to stay by your side for the rest of our lives. I can only imagine you feel the same – if your recent discussions with Bulma and your attempts to surreptitiously acquire my ring size is anything to go by.”

 Piccolo ended his explanation with a sly smirk, and Yamcha had never felt more caught in the act as he did now. Even so, his heart skipped a beat upon hearing how his partner really felt on the matter. Now that he thought about it, he really didn’t need any of that stuff either. He’d already fully dedicated himself to the stoic alien in his mind, and that’s what really mattered. Beyond that, what did it matter if they simply eloped?

 He couldn’t come up with an adequate verbal response to that, merely reaching down to grasp his husband’s hand, threading his fingers lovingly with the Namekian’s own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 After a few more hours of agonizing waiting, Yamcha found himself leaning his back against the headboard of their bed, his head resting on Piccolo’s shoulder and his eyelids growing heavier by the minute. It was already well into the small hours of the morning, yet their egg still hadn’t hatched. Progress had been made, the single snaking crack having turned into more of a spider web of cracks, but it wasn’t there just yet.

 Just as he was about to drift off to sleep despite his best efforts, Yamcha felt Piccolo’s shoulder shift just enough to wake him up again.

 “Hey, don’t fall asleep now. You’ll never forgive yourself if you missed it, now will you?” Piccolo whispered softly, but it was enough to get Yamcha sitting up straight again. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced down at the egg, quite surprised to find that one of the pieces of the cracked shell was staring to be pushed out a bit. He drew in a sharp gasp, quickly looking up towards his husband as though asking if he should do something. Piccolo nodded his head, giving him a gentle smile.

 “Go ahead, just be gentle.”

 Yamcha turned his attention back down to their egg, suddenly growing rather nervous. Okay, this was simple enough. He could do this. He just had to manage not to fuck it up somehow. He pressed a finger against the edge of the broken piece, very carefully pulling it up and removing it. From the small hole that was left, Yamcha could see a bit of green and pink skin covered in a slimy purple substance. His heart pounded in his chest at the sight, and he proceeded to gingerly peel away more shards of shell until the form of a tiny infant was clearly visible, its body curled up in a little ball to fit onto the egg. Its face scrunched up unhappily upon being exposed to the light and the strange feeling of the outside air on its bare skin, and soon the newborn’s soft crying filled the room.

 Yamcha reached into the egg, one hand lifting the child’s tiny body out while the other carefully cradled its head. Yuri squirmed a bit in his grasp, unsure what to do with its limbs now that it could move freely without being constricted to one position in that egg. Yamcha’s first instinct was to hold the child close against his chest, and as soon as he did, the crying started to die down a bit. He wasn’t sure how, but he felt like the newborn recognized him already, like it could sense his familiar energy and knew it was in safe, caring hands.

 The infant opened its dark eyes once it calmed further, staring up at him as its little hand clung to his shirt. Yamcha could feel his heart fluttering away in his chest as he met Yuri’s gaze for the first time, a wide, giddy grin spreading across his face as happy tears gathered in the corners of his eyes despite himself. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d been happier than that very moment, holding his child in his arms for the first time. He still couldn’t believe this was happening. It all felt like a dream…

 Yamcha took a moment to look the child over. There would be no denying Yuri’s alien heritage, the infant’s skin a familiar pattern of vibrant green and soft pink. Even after looking, its gender remained somewhat ambiguous. Were it a human, he would have automatically assumed it to be a girl, but he knew too much of Namekian anatomy to make that assumption. After all, Piccolo looked practically the same on the outside, and he knew better than to assume that what was seen on the outside was the whole story. They’d have to wait until they brought Yuri to be examined by Dr. Briefs to know for sure, but he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to treat it like a boy for the time being. He would feel terrible having to refer to their child as an ‘it’ now that he was officially born.

 Though his appearance seemed mostly Namekian, there were some small traits that hinted at Yuri’s human side. Most obvious was his lack of antennae, though there were two barely-visible ridges running along the top of his head where the appendages would normally be. Yamcha guessed that they were there in some capacity, but that they simply never separated from where they rested against his head in the egg. He also lacked the prominent brow ridges that seemed to be standard among the Namekian race, his forehead as smooth as any other human infant. Lastly, his head was covered in a thin layer of soft, wispy black hair.

 Yamcha hardly noticed when Piccolo removed the discarded egg shell from his lap, but he did finally look up when the Namekian offered him a small blanket to wrap the infant in. Only then did he realize that he hadn’t even thought to offer Piccolo a chance to hold their newborn son.

 “S-sorry, I uhhh… I guess I kinda been hogging him this whole time, huh?” he apologized with a nervous laugh, gently removing Yuri’s hand from where he still grasped as the fabric of his shirt. The infant let out a small whine as he left his comfortable spot against his father’s chest, but soon quieted down again once he was swaddled in the blanket and was passed into his other parent’s arms.

 “It’s alright. We’ll both have plenty of time with him,” Piccolo replied softly, keeping his voice low so as to not hurt the newborn’s sensitive ears. Once finally in his birthfather’s arms, Yuri seemed to be soothed even further, snuggling close against Piccolo’s chest and soon drifting off to sleep. Upon watching their son sleeping comfortably there in his husband’s arms, Yamcha’s body seemed to suddenly remember how tired he was before all the excitement started. He let out a yawn, to which Piccolo couldn’t help but give an amused chuckle.

 “You can go to sleep now if you want. I can take care of this from here.”

 Yamcha shook his head like a wet dog shaking off water, slapping his cheeks to try to wake himself up.

 “Nah, sleep is for the weak.”

 He glanced over towards Piccolo, just catching the amused smirk plastered on his lips.

 “We’ll see how you feel about that statement after a few nights of tending to a newborn…”


	21. Little Friends

 Yamcha groaned in frustration against his pillow when he heard the muffled crying emanating from the next room over. Goddammit, not again… It felt like he’d just gotten back to sleep! He could feel Piccolo let out a small sigh against the back of his neck, having been woken up by the same commotion.

 “Our son’s awake…” he grumbled out groggily.

 “Before sunrise, he’s _your_ son,” Yamcha retorted, having been just awake enough to reply with a joke. It seemed to work for its intended purpose, pulling a small chuckle from his husband.

 “You’re not going to ‘Lion King’ your way out of this one. I took care of him last time. It’s your turn.”

 Yamcha gave a reluctant whine, but eventually pulled himself from his bed and from Piccolo’s warm embrace. He shuffled his way out into the hall, letting out a big yawn as he scratched his head through his messy hair. He almost didn’t want to open his eyes, wanting to stay as asleep as he could so he could just go back to bed after he was done, but he eventually forced himself to keep them open. After all, as tired as he was, he didn’t want to risk falling asleep while taking care of Yuri.

 “Alright, kiddo, what is it this time?” he mumbled mostly to himself as he walked into the small nursery. He took half a step in before stopping dead in his tracks, taking notice of the unfamiliar figure already standing in the room. All he could make out in the near darkness was a tall black stain that would have rivaled Piccolo in height, and he noted that something bright seemed to be floating above its head. It stood next to Yuri’s crib and almost seemed to be staring down at the wailing infant. Yamcha only had enough time to draw in a sharp gasp of surprise before the thing disappeared faster than he could blink.

 Yamcha looked around frantically for where the apparition might have gone to, but he saw nothing, and he sensed nothing. What the hell _was_ that? And what was it doing in Yuri’s room? That thought brought him back to the present, and he rushed over to the infant’s crib.  Yuri continued his soft crying, but he didn’t seem hurt or scared at all. In fact, judging from the way he gummed at his fingers, he seemed to simply be hungry.

 Yamcha forced himself to try to calm down, though his heart continued to pound away in his chest. Had he just been seeing things? He supposed he _was_ still half asleep when he walked in, and it was very dark… And honestly, what was the alternative? That the house was suddenly haunted or something like that? Why would something like that be happening now? And why did it seem interested in Yuri?

 He tried to shake the thought from his head. That was just ridiculous… He couldn’t let himself get superstitious now. He did his best to try to forget what he’d just seen, reaching down to lift Yuri gently into his arms. The infant’s crying died down a bit once he was being held by his father, but he still let out little whines that threatened a return of his previous wailing. Yamcha rocked him gently in one arm as he knelt to open the small mini fridge in the corner, retrieving a small bottle of formula. He used his ki to heat it up almost instantly. It had only been a couple of weeks since Yuri was born, but he was getting used to that little trick Piccolo showed him. It sure beat waiting for it to heat up on the stove, and he’d gotten good enough already to hit the right temperature almost every time. Even so, he held the bottle against his cheek to ensure it wasn’t too hot before offering it to his son.

 Yuri sank into immediate silence the second the bottle was in his mouth, settling himself comfortably against his father’s chest. Yamcha let out a sigh of relief at that, sitting himself down into the armchair that had been set up next to the crib. Even as he fed his son, he couldn’t get what he’d seen out of his mind. Surely it was just a hallucination, a product of his sleep-deprived mind. It was nothing to worry about, right? Even so, as he stared down at Yuri’s momentarily contented face, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he left the infant alone for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

 When Piccolo awoke in the morning, he was somewhat surprised to find that his husband had never returned to bed after tending to their son. He furrowed his brow. That was strange… He hadn’t heard Yuri crying at all for the rest of the night. He’d have surely woken up to that, and if he couldn’t hear something, then Yamcha wouldn’t be able to pick up on it either. He got out of bed and quickly materialized his day clothes over his body before making his way out into the hall.

 Once he entered the nursery, Piccolo couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of relief. Yamcha was sitting there in the armchair next to the crib, fast asleep but with Yuri held securely in his arms. The infant was wide awake for the moment, and the instant he saw his birthfather he reached out inarticulately with his tiny hands, babbling wordlessly up at him and staring at him expectantly with eager eyes. Piccolo let a soft smile cross his lips, and he bent down to pick the child up as he clearly wanted.

 The second he began to lift the child from his husband’s grasp, however, Yamcha awoke with a start and pulled Yuri against his chest protectively. Piccolo was a bit taken aback by this reaction. After all, this wasn’t the first time he’d caught Yamcha in here asleep after tending to their child in the night, and all those other times he’d been able to take Yuri from his arms without eliciting so much as a twitch from his exhausted husband. Had something happened last night?

 “Hey, it’s alright. It’s just me…” Piccolo assured softly, resting a hand on his partner’s shoulder. Yamcha seemed to relax at that, the tension leaving his body with a heavy sigh of relief. The Namekian warrior picked up on his partner’s strange behavior at once, furrowing his brow in concern. “Is everything alright? Did something happen?”

 “N-no, everything’s fine!” Yamcha replied instinctively, flashing his husband a cocky grin. For a brief moment, he considered telling Piccolo what he saw the previous night. He quickly decided against it, still trying to convince himself that it was simply a vision of his sleep-addled mind. There was no need to worry Piccolo over something that he was convinced was all in his head. The Namekian seemed to accept his reply, though whether he believed it or not was anyone’s guess.

 “Alright, well… Dr. Briefs is expecting us in a few hours. You’d better go get dressed.”

 Yamcha seemed confused at first upon hearing this. Was that today? He knew they were going to take Yuri to get checked out by Dr. Briefs, but he hadn’t realized that it had come up so soon. At that point, he left his paranoid fears to the wayside, passing Yuri off to the child’s birthfather so he could go get himself properly dressed.

 

* * *

 

 

 As the pair of them made their way up the walkway towards Capsule Corp.’s main building, Yamcha found himself amused at Yuri’s reaction to the world around him. This was the first time he’d ever really been out of the house, and the infant was staring at everything around him with wide, curious eyes. As interested as he seemed to be, Yuri’s hands grasped almost fearfully at the cloth of Piccolo’s shirt, clinging to his birthfather for comfort in this strange new world he found himself in.

 As they entered the building, they were somewhat less than surprised to find Bulma waiting in the lobby to greet the two new parents. The instant she saw the infant held in Piccolo’s arms, her face lit up with excitement and she rushed over to get a better look.

 “Aww, he’s adorable! You named him Yuri, right? Nice to finally meet you, li’l guy!” she greeted the infant with a grin. Yuri merely stared at her for a long moment as though she were some strange otherworldly creature. Then, he turned away and promptly buried his face against Piccolo’s chest, presumably trying to hide from her. Bulma couldn’t help but let out an amused giggle in response.

 “He’s a shy one, huh? That’s alright. I’m sure he’ll get used to everyone in time. Speaking of which…”

 At that point, both Yamcha and Piccolo grew suspicious of the sly smirk that spread across her lips.

 “You didn’t…” Yamcha groaned out, his shoulders drooping slightly. Bulma replied with a mischievous grin.

 “Oh, come on! Everyone wanted to meet him anyway, so why not make an event of it? What better way to greet the little fella than a zeroth birthday party!”

 The two men let out an exasperated sigh practically in unison. Of course. How could they have expected anything else? ‘Any reason for a party’ was practically Bulma’s life motto, at least in recent years.

 “Bulma, we’re supposed to be meeting your father so he can examine Yuri. We’re not here to fool around,” Piccolo replied sternly, though the blue-haired scientist merely dismissed his argument with a wave of her hand.

 “Oh, _please._ It’s not like you’re here ‘cause he’s sick or anything. My dad’s curiosity can wait a bit, and I somehow doubt you’ve got any other plans for the day.”

 Before either of them could argue, Bulma grabbed hold of Piccolo’s wrist and proceeded to drag him towards the atrium of the building. Yamcha could see his husband’s grasp on their son tighten in response, as though afraid he would drop him. His preoccupation with keeping Yuri safe meant that he couldn’t exactly resist the woman’s insistent tugging. Yamcha himself could do little more than follow along behind.

 As promised, everyone was indeed gathered in the garden-like atrium of the building. The instant Piccolo was dragged to the center of the room, most everyone gathered around to have a look at the newest addition to the group. The Namekian merely sighed in resignation, accepting the situation that had been thrust upon him. As each of the others came up to have a look at the newborn, Yuri reacted much as he had with Bulma; he hid his face away against his birthfather’s chest and occasionally let out an unhappy whine whenever the bombardment of attention started to become too much for them. The only exception was Dende, who he’d met already shortly after his birth, but he was still a tiny bit apprehensive around anyone but his parents.

 Everyone soon backed off once they realized that they were upsetting the child, and much to both of the parents’ relief, he calmed down after that… at least until Chi Chi walked close by. For some reason, Yuri seemed to perk up instantly once she came near, turning to look her way when he wouldn’t dare make eye contact with anyone before. He reached out a hand towards her, letting out a stream of meaningless baby babble as though he wanted something from her.

 “Huh?” Chi Chi mumbled out, stopping in her tracks and turning to stare up at where the infant still rested in Piccolo’s arms. Both Yamcha and Piccolo were equally confused by their son’s sudden shift in temperament towards someone who was essentially a stranger. Once the woman turned fully to face the infant, what he was going after became obvious, though no less confusing than before. Yuri let out a tiny squeal, leaning over and making grabby hands at the one-year-old held in Chi Chi’s arms.

 “What the…” Yamcha mumbled out, furrowing his brows in confusion. “He’s okay with _Goten?_ Is it because their close to the same age?”

 “I dunno…” Chi Chi replied, equally perplexed. “He didn’t react this way to Trunks, and he’s not too much older…”

 “I think I might know what it is.”

 At that point, everyone’s attention turned to Dende. The child guardian shrunk back a bit under the sudden scrutiny, not used to being the center of attention. Still, he carried on with his explanation.

 “Piccolo, you babysat for Goten a lot when you were still carrying your egg, right?”

 “Y-yeah, but we also watched Trunks whenever we had Goten over, and Yuri seems just as afraid of him as everyone else…”

 “Yeah, but Trunks is older. You didn’t have to carry him around all the time because he knew how to walk already. Goten’s still too young for that, though. You had to carry him around near your chest when you watched him, very close to where your egg was growing.”

 Piccolo seemed to catch on to what the younger Namekian was saying at that point, staring down at the two babies with a look of sudden realization. Yamcha, however, was still very confused.

 “But… what does that have to do with anything? He was still hardly an egg at that point…”

 “It’s because the first sense Namekian babies develop before their born is the ability to sense ki,” Dende continued. “Even while their inside their birthparent, they can feel whatever ki surrounds them. While they’re in that early stage of development, they form a close bond to the ki that are around them all the time. That’s why they’re normally closest to their birthparent after they hatch, with their father following at a very close second. You must have had Goten over so often, and held him close long enough, that Yuri started to form a bond with him as well. He might even think he’s his brother.”

 “No kidding…” Chi Chi replied, somewhat intrigued by this new information. She then looked down to her youngest son with a soft smile. “Hear that, sweetie? Sounds like you’ve already made a new friend!”

 Goten, for his part, looked utterly confused. He merely stared up at the younger infant with his head cocked curiously to one side, chewing idly at his tiny fingers. Saiyans clearly weren’t born with the same ki-sensing ability as Namekians, as the youngest of the Son family clearly had no idea who this strange green child was who was reaching for him and babbling at him. About at the point where Yuri was growing frustrated enough by the lack of response to start threatening tears, Chi Chi grew intrigued enough to lift Goten up to be within arm’s length of the newborn. Yuri’s inarticulate movements resulted in him baping the half Saiyan lightly on the cheek a few times, which only seemed to confuse Goten further. Goten reached out a hand presumably to return the favor, but Yuri somehow managed to grasp the other infant’s fingers, at which point he bounced happily in his birthfather’s arms and resumed his excited babbling. Finally, a smile spread across Goten’s face, and he replied with a delighted giggle.

 Fast friends, indeed.


	22. The Wolf and the Dragon

 The normally peaceful air of the Scherbakov mansion was filled with the sound of children’s laughter and the arrhythmic thumping of little feet as they ran through the halls. Yamcha kept an ear out for the sound of anything breaking, but beyond that he couldn’t hardly muster the energy to do anything aside from slump exhaustedly on the couch.

 Over the past few months, all of the parents among their group of friends had made a pact of sorts; one weekend out of the month, each couple would take turns watching all of the children together. Of course, the only real ‘couple’ doing this were Piccolo and Yamcha, since Vegeta tended to leave the duty of childcare solely to Bulma, and Chi Chi was still very much a widow. Krillin and Android 18 had already agreed to join in on it once their daughter was born, but, as 18 was still heavily pregnant, they were allowed to skip their weekend for the time being.

 It was a decent idea, at least in theory. The hope was that it would give each pair of parents at least a few days out of the month with no children around. Whether they used that time for more intimate pursuits or simply to take a grateful moment to relax was entirely up to each of them, of course. For whoever’s turn it was to watch the younglings, however, it was absolute chaos. The task of watching over two young half-Saiyan boys was a handful in itself, but the normally-calm Yuri seemed to come out of his shell when around the other two and fully embraced Goten’s and Trunks’ antics.

 Of course, Gohan came along on these weekend excursions as well, but he tended to keep mostly to himself, taking the opportunity to catch up on his studies. It would come as little surprise, then, that the Saiyan teen sought refuge from the chaos of his younger compatriots in the mansion’s impressive library, where Piccolo was standing ready to tutor his young protégé in mathematics, physics, history, and – occasionally – a bit of martial arts training whenever the opportunity arose. Unfortunately, that left Yamcha to look after the younger ones practically by himself.

 Everything was going smoothly for the time being. The three young boys had decided to amuse themselves with a game of tag, using the vast, winding corridors of the ancient mansion as a playing field. Trunks, being the oldest, clearly had the advantage in speed over the other two. Yuri held home-field advantage, however, knowing countless hiding spots and old servants’ passages that the other two would never imagine were there. What the two half-Saiyans had in power and speed, the little half-Namekian had in cunning and stealth. Yamcha couldn’t help but let a proud smirk spread across his lips at that thought. Honestly, he preferred it that way. Saiyans could be powerful monsters all they wanted, but as long as his son could hold his own by being sly and intelligent, that was more than enough for him.

 Soon enough, however, the seemingly even match-up was broken when a loud shriek of distress echoed throughout the halls.

 “ _Owwie!!_ ” came the familiar squeak of Yuri’s voice from somewhere in the surrounding halls. “N-no fair! You’re not supposed to pull hair! That’s against the rules!”

 “Hey, it’s your own fault for not getting a haircut!” came the smoky retort from Trunks. “Mommy says only lazy bums have long hair!”

 “Nuh uh! My Daddy has long hair too, and Papa says it’s sexy on him! So _there!_ ” Yuri shot back, to which Yamcha couldn’t help but blush in utter embarrassment. Goddammit, sometimes he’d forgotten that his son had inherited Piccolo’s impossibly sharp hearing. Of _course_ he’d end up overhearing some of the conversations his parents had in private…

 “Alright, break it up, you two,” Yamcha called out as he reluctantly lifted himself off the couch and made his way out into the hall. Yuri, Goten, and Trunks were all there – aged three, four, and five respectively – and the oldest of them still had a firm grasp on a handful of the youngest’s long black hair. Yuri let out a distressed whine, trying desperately to yank his hair from Trunks’ grasp, but to no avail. As soon as the half-Saiyan spotted Yamcha rounding the corner, however, he immediately let go and hid his hands behind his back, trying to pretend that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Yuri went tumbling forward once he was free, and once he picked himself up off the floor he shot Trunks a sharp glare.

 “C’mon, guys, it’s getting a little too late to play around like this. Time to go get ready for bed, okay?” Yamcha said, to which he received a chorus of disappointed groans from the three boys.

 “But we’re not tired yet!” Goten whined, at which point the other two immediately voiced their agreement.

 “Yeah, that sounds like a _you_ problem,” the former bandit replied with a smirk.

 “But Mommy always reads me a bedtime story. You can’t send us to bed until we get a story!” Trunks retorted, drawing an elated gasp from Yuri.

 “Yeah! I wanna hear a bedtime story too!”

 Yamcha couldn’t do anything but let out a resigned sigh. There was no resisting that eager, hopeful look in his son’s eyes. It got him every time.

 “Alright, alright… Go get changed into your pajamas. I’ll be right up,” he replied, to which the three young boys let out a cheer and scrambled upstairs to Yuri’s room. Well, at least that would buy him a few minutes to come up with a story to tell…

  

* * *

 

 

 Yamcha delayed for as long as he felt he could get away with before heading upstairs himself. Dammit, Trunks… Why’d the little brat have to go and mention bedtime stories? Now that he was under pressure to tell one, he couldn’t remember any of the ones he’d heard before. He supposed that meant he’d have to make one up on the spot.

 The three young boys were already waiting up in Yuri’s room by the time Yamcha made his way up there. They sat in the large mass of blankets and pillows that had been gathered on the floor for them to sleep in. Piccolo had previously offered to make the other two their own beds, but they seemed to enjoy building pillow forts and curling up in a giant nest of blankets, so they just let them do as they wished. Yamcha settled himself down on a particularly large cushion in front of the three boys, trying to ignore how they were all staring up at him expectantly.

 “Okay, so, uhhh… What kind of story do you want to hear?” he asked, hoping maybe they could give him a little hint on what he was supposed to do.

 “Ooh! I know!” Goten chimed in immediately, “Tell us a story with animals in it! All of Grandpa’s stories have animals!”

 “A story with animals, huh?” Yamcha repeated mostly to himself. Yeah, he could work with that. “Alright, let’s see… Once upon a time, there was a… a wolf! Yeah, a wolf, that works. The wolf was very sad and lonely, so one night he—"

 “Why was the wolf sad and lonely?” Trunks interrupted before he hardly got the chance to get the story started. Yamcha let out a little grumble of annoyance, his eyebrow twitching slightly.

 “Because the wolf’s poodle girlfriend left him for some spikey-haired chihuahua. Now do you want me to tell the story or not?”

 Trunks immediately covered his mouth with his hands as though to physically stop himself from interrupting again, nodding his head to indicate that he wanted the story to continue.

 “Good. Anyway… One night, the wolf climbed up a very tall mountain so that he could get as close to the moon as he could. He howled up at the moon, asking it to grant him three wishes: he wanted a mate to love him, a family he could love in return, and to feel like he’d done something meaningful in his life. He howled all night long until his throat hurt, but the moon never answered him back. The wolf left the mountain, convinced he’d never get his wishes. As he made the climb down, he slipped on the icy rocks and fell down a deep gorge.”

 The three boys each gasped at that.

 “What happened to the wolf?! Did he die?!” Yuri asked, clearly worried for this fictional wolf.

 “That’s lame! You can’t kill off the main character in the beginning of the story!” Trunks added with a small pout. Yamcha let out a small chuckle at that. Well, at least they seemed invested in the story so far. He must have been doing _something_ right.

 “Don’t worry, the wolf didn’t die. Just before he hit the ground, a great dragon flew out of the sky and caught him.”

 “A dragon?! Like a for _real_ dragon?!” Goten asked, leaning forward a bit as he listened. Yamcha gave him a small nod.

 “Yep! The dragon took the wolf back to his den, and soon the two of them became very good friends. Still, the wolf felt like he owed the dragon a debt for saving his life, and he asked if there was any way he could repay him. The dragon then told the wolf of a problem that had been plaguing him for a long time.

 “Many years before, a very powerful and ancient wizard used his magic to steal the dragon’s memories. The wizard then sealed the memories in small crystal balls, and he gave them to two demons to guard. The wolf decided that he would go fight the two demons and get the dragon’s lost memories back, and so he left to do just that.

 “The first demon was a giant eagle that ruled over a huge forest. The eagle had the power to start fires with its wings, and it terrorized the other animals living in the forest. The eagle hated anything that wasn’t an eagle just like itself, and it hunted down all the other animals and burned them with its magic fire. The wolf confronted the eagle, demanding the dragon’s memories back, but the eagle refused. It flapped its massive wings and sent a wall of fire towards the wolf. The wolf was scared, but he knew he had to be brave if he wanted to help his friend. He jumped up as high as he could, leaping straight through the flames and aiming his fangs for the eagle’s neck.”

 Yamcha paused for a slight moment, suddenly afraid that he might be making the story a little too dark for such young children. Upon looking down at them to see if they were getting scared, however, he found that all three of them were staring up at him with rapt attention, practically on the edge of their seats.

 “Oh, c’mon! You can’t stop there!” Trunks whined.

 “Yeah! You gotta keep going! Did the wolf defeat the eagle?” Yuri asked, practically bouncing in anticipation for what came next. Goten nodded his head in agreement, equally as excited as the other two.

 “Uhh… Yeah, he did! The wolf tackled the eagle to the ground, and stole the crystal ball it had hanging from its neck.”

 The three boys have happy cheers at hearing that, clapping their hands for the brave wolf. Yamcha couldn’t stop a grin from spreading across his face at their reaction.

 “The wolf wasn’t done yet, though. There was still one more demon for him to defeat. The second demon was a gigantic bear who ruled over the mountains where the dragon lived. The bear demanded that the animals of the mountains bring him all of the food they gathered, keeping it all for himself and sharing none of it. Any animal that refused would be frozen solid by the bear’s ice powers.

 “The wolf approached the bear and gave it the same chance he gave the eagle, but the bear refused to hand over the dragon’s memories. It then slammed its paw to the ground, sending a wave of icicles hurtling towards the wolf. The wolf dodged as much he could, charging at the bear. The bear was ready for him, expecting the wolf to attack, but the wolf was sneaky. He slid under the bear and snatched the crystal ball it held, running away to safety with all the stolen memories.

 “The wolf returned to the dragon’s den, presenting his friend with his lost memories. The dragon saw the wolf’s injuries, how his fur was singed and his body cut and bruised from the icicles, and knew how hard he must have fought for his sake. He thanked the wolf before devouring the crystal balls, regaining his memories once more.

 “But…” Yamcha paused, faltering for a moment. “But the dragon soon realized that the memories that had been stolen from him were all sad memories. The wizard hadn’t taken away his memories because he was evil, but because they hurt the dragon to remember. The wolf suddenly felt very guilty for getting back those awful memories. He’d come to realize that he loved the dragon, and he couldn’t bear the thought of making him so sad.

 “To make up for his mistake, the wolf told the dragon that he would stay by his side, and that he wanted to help make enough happy memories with him that the sad ones didn’t hurt so bad. The dragon saw the wolf’s sincerity, and he accepted.

 “The two of them stayed with each other for a long time, making happy memories together every day. One day, the dragon used his magic powers to make an egg, and he gave that egg to the wolf. When it hatched, the wolf was surprised to find that the little dragon that was inside looked like it was part wolf itself! It was then that the wolf realized that the moon had listened to his wishes after all, and the dragon had been sent to grant them. The wolf had everything he’d ever wanted, and the three of them lived happily ever after. The end!”

 “Wow, that was so cool!” Goten commented, still staring up at Yamcha in wonder.

 “Yeah, that was _way_ cooler than the stories Mommy tells! She doesn’t tell the ones where stuff fights other stuff!” Trunks added with a grin.

 “Daddy, can you tell another one? I wanna hear more stories like that!” Yuri chimed in. His father replied to that with a light chuckle, scratching at the back of his head.

 “Maybe some other time, kiddo. I told you guys a story like I promised, so now it’s time for bed.”

 To that, the three young boys groaned in disappointment, but they eventually complied, each picking their favorite spot in the mass of blankets to curl up in. Yamcha took the opportunity to finally slip out of there, wishing the boys a good night and flicking off the main light of the room.

 “Interesting story. Can’t help but feel I’ve heard it before.”

 Yamcha jumped slightly when the familiar voice addressed him seemingly out of nowhere. He looked around, soon spotting Piccolo as he stood against a nearby wall. He gave his husband a nervous laugh, a bright blush spreading across his cheeks. Dammit, he should have known better than to assume Piccolo wouldn’t overhear all that...

 “Y-yeah, sorry… It was the only thing I could think of at the time,” he explained meekly. “You’re not mad, are you?”

 “No, not at all. You did it tastefully enough,” Piccolo replied, giving his partner a soft smile. He took a step forward and draped his arms loosely around the former bandit’s neck, and Yamcha in turn wrapped his arms around his husband’s waist. “I only have one complaint, though… You seem to have left out one of the most important details of the story.”

 “I-I did?” Yamcha stammered out, blinking in confusion. What could he have possibly left out. Piccolo, clearly amused at his reaction, let a small smirk cross his lips. He leaned down until their foreheads touched and pulled the shorter man close against his body.

 “The argument could be made that it was not the _dragon_ that was sent to grant the wolf’s wishes, but the _wolf_ who came to grant the dragon’s wishes.”

 Yamcha drew in a sharp gasp upon hearing that. Did Piccolo really mean that? One look into his husband’s eyes was enough to tell him that it was no joke. His hold on the other man tightened, and he stood up on his toes to close those last few inches between their lips.

 “Oh, yuck! Yuri, your dads are kissing!” came Trunks’ voice from somewhere behind him.

 “Eew! Grown-ups are so gross!” Goten added.

 “D-Daddy! Papa! Y-you’re embarrassing me in front of my friends!”

 Yamcha’s face turned bright red upon hearing all this, instinctively breaking away from their kiss and turning to see the three boys poking their head out of the bedroom door to spy on them.

“G-goddammit, you’re supposed to be in bed!” he retorted without thinking, to which Trunks drew in an exaggerated gasp.

 “Imma tell Mommy you cursed!”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but let out an exasperated groan. He just couldn’t catch a break today, could he? Piccolo, to his credit, was more amused than anything, letting out a chuckle as he leaned down to whisper in his husband’s ear.

 “Don’t worry so much about it. It’s Bulma’s turn to watch them next week. If you’ll take a rain check on that kiss, I promise I’ll make the wait more than worth it…”

 Yamcha almost couldn’t stop the pleasant shiver that ran up his spine at that, the deep, sultry tone of the Namekian’s voice practically making him melt in his arms. A giddy grin spread across his face, and he completely forgot about the embarrassment he’d felt a moment ago.

 “I’ll hold you to that!”


	23. The Mystery of Mr. Vlad

 Yamcha let out a big yawn as he stretched out in bed, scratching at his messy mop of hair. He turned over to lay on his other side, reaching out blindly to try to wrap his arm around his husband’s torso, but his hand touched nothing but bare cold sheets. He finally opened his eyes to see where Piccolo might have gone to only to be half blinded by the sunlight streaming in through the window. Well, that would explain why Piccolo wasn’t there. The Namekian warrior almost never slept in past sunrise, and from the look of things it seemed to be getting on towards noon. He supposed it was too late to go back to sleep, then.

 Yamcha crawled out of bed and slipped on a pair of pants, merely running his fingers through his wild hair to get the larger tangles out, but doing little more than that. Today felt like a lazy sort of day, and he was sort of hoping he could get away with not getting fully dressed. He wandered out into the hall, turning towards Yuri’s room to check if the four-year-old was awake yet. Before he had a chance to even grab the doorknob, he overheard talking from inside.

 “Okay, Mr. Vlad, it’s your turn to pick a card, and I’ll try guessing it this time!”

 Yamcha couldn’t help but furrow his brow at that. Who the hell was Yuri talking to? He couldn’t sense anyone but his son in the room… Still, he was concerned enough to go barging into the boy’s room. Yuri jumped in surprise at the sudden intrusion, but merely turned his head to stare up at his father. He shot him a grin, not attempting in the slightest to hide what he was doing, so he was clearly not doing anything he thought was wrong. He merely sat neatly on the floor, a deck of playing cards in his hand. Just as the former bandit sensed earlier, no one else was there.

 “Oh, hi Daddy! You slept a lot today. Papa’s already outside training,” he stated casually, the smile never leaving his face.

 “Oh, uhhh… Right…” Yamcha replied, still extremely confused. “Hey, I heard you talking in here a second ago. Who were you talking to?”

 “Oh, I was just talking to Mr. Vlad! He’s my friend! Mr, Vlad, say hi to my Da—” Yuri suddenly cut off as he turned back to where he was looking before, his brows furrowed in confusion at the sudden emptiness in front of him. Yamcha looked in the direction he was staring, but all he saw was a big crow sitting on the railing just outside the window.

 “Uhh… Is Mr. Vlad a bird?” Yamcha asked hopefully, but Yuri shook his head.

 “Awww, he disappeared again…” he whined, his shoulders wilting in disappointment. “He always does that whenever someone else is around… He’s really shy.”

 Suddenly, it started to dawn on Yamcha what was going on here, and he couldn’t stop a small smile from spreading across his lips. Aww, how cute. Yuri had an imaginary friend. At least, that seemed to be the only reasonable explanation. After all, what else couldn’t be sensed and magically disappeared around anyone but the child it played with?

 “Oh, that’s okay. Maybe he’ll come back if I left again. Tell him I’m sorry for scaring him off, okay?” Yamcha said with a smile, ruffling Yuri’s hair playfully. The boy let out a small giggle, but nodded his head.

 “’Kay!”

 And with that, Yamcha left Yuri to play with his ‘friend.’ After all, he didn’t see any harm in letting the child have his fun. He was still pretty young, and small children made up imaginary friends all the time. Now that he’d gotten himself riled up, though, it was clear he wouldn’t be able to settle for his lazy day as he’d originally planned. Instead, he returned to his room to put on his gi, planning instead to join his husband outside to share in his training.

 

* * *

 

 

 “Good morning. So glad that you decided to join us here in the waking world,” Piccolo greeted as Yamcha made his way across the lawn towards him, the Namekian never having to turn around or even lift his head from where he was quietly meditating. Yamcha had long since grown accustomed to him always knowing when he was approaching, no matter how silently he did so. He merely let out a chuckle, scratching at the back of his head.

 “Yeah, sorry about that. Looks like I really conked out, huh?” he replied with a lopsided grin. “By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve ‘met’ Yuri’s imaginary friend? Or am I late to this party or something?”

 “Imaginary friend?” Piccolo repeated, finally standing up from where he sat floating above the grass. “No, I haven’t heard anything about it, though I suppose it would make sense. He only ever gets to see his friends on the weekends, so it’s only natural that he’d imagine having someone to play with during the times he has no one his own age around. He’ll grow out of it eventually, I’m sure.”

 Whatever small reservations Yamcha had left about the whole thing seemed to dissolve upon hearing that. That seemed like an extremely logical explanation, and if Piccolo wasn’t bothered by it, then he supposed he was okay with it as well.

 “Alright, well if you happen to hear him talking to a ‘Mr. Vlad,’ that’ll be it.”

 “Mr. Vlad, you said? Strange… I wonder where he came up with a name like that…”

 “It’s an old Russian name, right? I figured he might have picked it from something you could have said…” Yamcha replied, already starting to grow slightly uneasy about it again. Piccolo shook his head, which only deepened his unease.

 “I never knew anyone by the name of Vladimir, which is what Vlad is short for. It was a common enough name back then, but I wouldn’t have any reason to mention it now.”

 “Well…” Yamcha began, now searching his mind desperately for some reasonable explanation for all this. “Could he have read it in one of the books in the library?”

 “I _did_ teach him to read Russian, but I can’t think of any book in there with that name in it that he wouldn’t find painfully boring or just plain beyond his comprehension level. Though… I suppose he _could_ have simply picked a book at random and liked the name of the author.”

 “Yeah, I guess…” Yamcha conceded. That had to be it, then. Either way, it did seem like a stupid thing to get all worked up over.

  

* * *

 

 

 They left the subject of Yuri’s imaginary friend to the wayside for the next several weeks, and things fell back into their usual routine. The weekend came again, meaning it was once again time for Yuri to go sleep over at one of his friends’ house. This week it was Chi Chi’s turn to host, and Yamcha had just returned from dropping their son off at the Sons’ East District home. When he got home, he sensed Piccolo upstairs and hurried his way up to join him, eager to start enjoying one of the few moments alone they got anymore without the risk of a child walking in on them or overhearing them.

 Once Yamcha got upstairs, however, he was confused to find that Piccolo was in Yuri’s room. Arching a brow in curiosity, he made his way into their son’s room to join him. He found his husband sitting on the edge of the child’s bed, his brow furrowed as he flipped slowly through a sketchbook that Yuri was often seen coloring in.

 “H-hey, something wrong?” Yamcha asked hesitantly. Piccolo never looked up from the sketchbook as he replied.

 “I’m not sure… There’s some drawings in here that are a little odd…”

 “L-like what?” Yamcha asked nervously, at which point Piccolo turned the sketchbook around for him to see.

 The picture he was shown seemed innocent enough at first glance. It was the typical crayon drawing that any four-year-old might be expected to draw. It had the usual child-like depiction of a simple house, a circle of yellow above with lines sticking out of it to indicate the sun. A figure that Yamcha had come to recognize as an almost stick-figure version of Yuri himself was drawn near the house, a happy smile on his face. But it was what was drawn next to Yuri that made Yamcha’s blood turn to ice. It looked as though Yuri had taken a black crayon and run it up and down the page to create a formless bar of black, a yellow circle drawn over the top of it. It was a tall black stain, a bright gold ring floating over its head. The last nail in the coffin was the childish writing next to each of the figures; one spelled out Yuri’s name, while the writing next to the black figure clearly spelled out ‘Mr. Vlad.’

 “Y-you’ve gotta be kidding me…” he breathed out weakly, taking hold of the sketchbook and holding it with shaking hands. No, this couldn’t be right… It just _couldn’t_ be! Piccolo instantly picked up on how terrified Yamcha seemed to be upon seeing the doodle, now staring up at him with concern.

 “What’s the matter? I know it’s kinda creepy, but I didn’t think it was _that_ creepy.”

 “I-it’s not that…” Yamcha stammered out hesitantly. There was no choice anymore, was there? He had to be honest to his husband about what he’d seen back when Yuri was still a baby. “I’ve _seen_ this thing before…”

 “What do you mean you’ve seen it before? Seen it in a movie or something like that?”

 Yamcha shook his head in response.

 “No… I _saw_ it. I saw it in _here_ , four years ago… Standing over Yuri’s crib…”

 “ _What?!_ ” Piccolo snapped back as he jumped up to his feet, causing Yamcha to visibly flinch. “You saw something like _this_ in our child’s room when he was hardly just hatched and you didn’t think to tell me about that until _now?!_ ”

 Yamcha was paralyzed to respond for a long moment. He’d never seen Piccolo so angry with him, and it kind of scared him a bit. Still, he couldn’t really blame the guy. This was their kid they were talking about, after all. Were their positions reversed, he knew he’d be pretty mad himself.

 “L-look, it was dark, okay? A-and I was half asleep, and it was only there for a split second, and… And I thought I was just seeing things and making myself paranoid! I didn’t want to worry you over nothing!”

 Piccolo stared down at him for a moment as if sizing him up to gauge the truth of his explanation. Eventually, he seemed to accept his husband’s story, letting out a low growl as he averted his glare down towards the child’s drawing once more. He was still clearly angry, but that anger was now directed towards the situation at hand rather than at Yamcha.

 “So… What do we do?” Yamcha asked, completely out of ideas. Piccolo let out a heavy sigh, seeming to struggle a bit with coming up with something himself. Finally, he seemed to settle on something.

 “We consult an expert.”

  

* * *

 

 

 The two of them immediately took off towards the western desert, hoping to go request help from this ‘expert’ while Yuri was still away with his friends. There was only one person either of them could think of that had experience with spirits and otherworldly beings, and thankfully she was more than willing to come check things out for them after they explained the situation to her. Within hours, the old witch Baba sat floating on her crystal ball in the middle of the young boy’s room, eyes closed as she felt her surroundings for traces of whatever this ‘Mr. Vlad’ was.

 “Hmmm… Yes, something’s definitely been in here. Something not meant to reside in this plane of existence,” she announced finally, which only served to dash all of Yamcha’s hopes that this might have been something silly and harmless after all.

 “S-so… This place really _is_ haunted?” he asked hesitantly, to which Baba merely gave a hum of non-committal agreement.

 “I suppose you could say that, in a certain sense. This spirit hasn’t attached itself to this place, however, but to your _son_. It seems to have resided in this room with him for something like five years, not nearly long enough for the stench of Hell to leave it.”

 “ _What?!_ ” Piccolo barked out, clearly distressed by this sudden turn. “Are you saying this… this _thing_ escaped from Hell?! And now it’s attached itself to Yuri?!”

 Baba gave a somber nod.

 “That is unmistakably the case. If the child is as old as you say, then I can only imagine it imprinted itself on him while he was still inside his egg, which is why he instinctually trusts this creature.”

 “What does it want from him? And why _him?_ ” Yamcha asked, but this time the tiny witch shook her head.

 “I do not know. Such creatures do not normally toy with their victims for so long. Normally, the child would be terrorized, or possessed, or some attempt to devour him would be made, but… I sense none of that in this creature. Whatever it is, it seems to just want to play with him.”

 “I don’t give a fuck _what_ it wants,” Piccolo interjected, his patience wearing thin finally, “Whatever it is, I want it _gone!_ Can you do that?”

 Baba grumbled a bit at his demanding tone but seemed to chalk it up to his understandable concern for his child. She hopped down off her crystal ball, pulling up her sleeves as though preparing to get to work. She held her hands up towards her floating crystal ball, mumbling some incomprehensible words under her breath. The crystal began to glow with a pure white light, the energy emanating from it pulsing throughout the room. After a moment, however, the light in the crystal ball shifted to a deep black, a counteracting energy sparking around it.

 “Wh-what the—” was all Baba managed to get out before she was sent flying backwards, her back slamming against the far wall. The crystal ball continued to float for a while before the dark energy faded away, and it lowered itself down safely to the ground once more.

 “H-hey! Are you okay?!” Yamcha asked as he rushed over to Baba’s side. The old witch seemed to be uninjured, but she was pale as a ghost, staring with wide eyes back at her own crystal ball.

 “I-it… It _spoke_ to me!” she stammered out almost fearfully.

 “I-it did? What did it say?”

 “’Be not afraid. No harm will come to this child so long as I am here to watch over him.’”

 “Be not afraid, huh? Tch…” Piccolo repeated the offending line with a scoff. “So now this bastard is trying to pass itself off as some kind of guardian angel?”

 “Th-the line between angel and demon is thinner than you might expect…” Baba replied, just starting to regain her composure. “Either way… I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. This spirit is simply too strong for me to banish on my own.”

 “What do you have to do, then? Are there others you can ask for help? Can King Yemma do anything about this?” Yamcha asked, frantically trying to drag an answer out of the old witch. Unfortunately, she shook her head once more.

 “I’m the most powerful witch on this planet. Even if I recruited all the covens this world still has, it wouldn’t be enough. Yemma may have authority over the dead, but his powers here in the living world are severely limited. The only course of action I could possibly think of would be to teach my ways to someone far stronger than myself.”

 “Then teach me!” Piccolo replied without hesitation. “I have all of Kami’s memories and training, and he could already do a lot of what you do! Teach me whatever’s left to know so I can destroy this thing!”

 Once again, Baba shook her head.

 “I’m afraid, under the current circumstances, you’re the only one I _can’t_ teach to fight this spirit.”

 “Wh-what?!” Yamcha retorted. “Why not?! Piccolo’s one of the strongest people on the planet! You couldn’t ask for a better candidate to fight this thing!”

 “Oh yes, he _does_ seem to be the ideal candidate, but that may be _why_ he can’t,” Baba replied evenly, finally making her way back over to her crystal ball and checking its surface for cracks. Upon seeing their confused faces in the reflective surface of the magical instrument, she decided to explain further. “This spirit knows who poses the greatest threat to it, and it has attuned its energy to what is essentially his spiritual blind spot; a frequency of energy he is incapable of sensing no matter how hard he trained. He cannot see it, he cannot sense it, and he cannot interact with it.”

 “But… If this thing could do that, what hope does anyone else have to learn to detect it? It’ll just block them out, too!” Yamcha replied hopelessly. Surprisingly, Baba gave yet another shake of her head.

 “No. While it _can_ do that, it _won’t_. Spirits, especially very old ones like this one, are very flexible, able to adjust their energy at will, but they can only attune themselves to one frequency at a time. This one seems stubbornly determined to stay out of Piccolo’s notice, and it will not change no matter what. The instant it does, it knows that Piccolo is more than capable, and even more willing, to fight back against it. Because of this, we may have just one last option remaining.”

 With that, Baba turned her gaze to stare squarely up at Yamcha. At first, he was very confused, but soon enough the implication hit him.

 “W-wait, you mean _me?!_ ” he shouted out incredulously. Surely she must be joking! Of course, Baba was not known for her sense of humor, and the deadly serious look in her eyes supported this.

 “You said you’ve seen it before, correct? That means your spiritual blind spot is not so close to Piccolo’s own for its invisibility to work perfectly on you. If you were properly trained in the spiritual arts, there’s every possibility you’d be able to see through its tricks and maybe even physically interact with it. Besides, you’ve already died once before. Since you’ve spent some time in the afterlife and know the feel of that world, it’ll cut out what is potentially _decades_ of training.”

 Yamcha was truly taken aback by this suggestion. All of a sudden, she was talking about teaching him to be a medium? It was all happening so fast, he wasn’t sure how to respond. He looked over towards Piccolo as though trying to gauge his opinion on the matter. The expression on his husband’s face was one of the most helpless he’d ever seen. That alone seemed to light a fire in Yamcha, and he turned back to Baba with newfound determination.

 “Alright, I’ll do it. I’ll go through whatever training you can think of, as long as it’ll help Yuri.”

 “Very well, then. I’ll teach you. I only have one rule if you decide to become my pupil…” she replied with a smirk, pointing up towards the orange gi he still wore. More specifically, she pointed towards the symbol of the Turtle School of Martial Arts. “You will not wear my baby brother’s obnoxious uniform in my palace!”


End file.
